Manhunt v06 n04 [1958-06]

WORLD’S BEST SELLING CRIME-FICTION MAGAZINE
JUNE, 1958 35 CENTS

A Tough, New Story by

("The Man With The Golden Arm”)

VOL. 6, NO. 4 MANH UNT JUNE, 1958

CONTENTS

FEATURE STORY
Say A PRAYER ror THE Guy by Nelson Algren. .nccccsccssses 31

NOVEL
Ir Never PArreNep by William O'Farrell 0 icc. tse scsance S29

NOVELETTES

Tue Turear by Max SPAARUR cls ee neo oes cho Se eae ee aes l
DeapLY CHarM by Stuart Friedman......... Pe. E a Oe

SHORT STORIES
Tue SicurT orf Broon by C. B. Gilford... a cag eee ye ee OU

Kitten Cor by Arnold English... ....soosenaa. PE 114

“Give Me a Break!” by Norman Struber.......a.onananaan. 23
Stace FricuT by D. E. Forbes... AARNEN ONT RETEN 63
A Fire ar Nicnt by Lawrence Block. cs. scene anes oea D9
PROOI JOG ONCS EE E E a T Ee no feu N a 14
Tue Cups Are Down by Wilfred Alexander... a...an.. 71
BiackMAILERS Don’r Take Crtances by David C. Cooke...... 121

MICHAEL ST. JOHN, Publisher
FRANCIS X. LEWIS, Editorial Director

CHARLES W. ADAMS, Art Director JEFF COOKE, Managing Editor
GERALD ADAMS, Assistant Art Director JOE SHORE, Advertising Rep.

M H T VOLUME 6, NUMBER 4, June, 1958. Single hies 35 cents. Subscriptions, $4.00 for one year
AN UN in the United States and Possessions; elsewhere $5.00 (in U. S. Funds) for one year. Pub-
lished bi-monthly by Flying Eagle Publications, Inc., 545 Fifth Avenue, New York 17, N. Y. Telephone MU
7-6623. Entered as Second Class matter at the Post Office, New York, N. Y. Additional entry at Concord, N. H.
The entire contents of this issue are copyrighted 1958 by Flying Eagle Publications, Inc., under the International
Copyright Convention. All rights reserved under Inter-American Copyright Convention. Title registered U. S.
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in this magazine and those of any living or dead person or institution is intended and any similarity which

exist is purely coincidental. Printed in U. S. A.

?

the THREAT

A Novelette
BY MAX FRANKLIN

The set-up smelled phony, but I took the job

anyway. You don’t say no to multi-millionaires...

T3 vorce on the phone was pre-
cise. “Mr. Harold Stander?”

“Speaking,” I said.

“This is Mr. George Harbor,
personal secretary to Mr. and Mrs.
Joshua Wolfendon. Mrs.: Wolfen-
don has asked me to engage you on
a confidential matter. Are you
available at the moment?”

“Pm available,” I said laconic-
ally. I had been available for some
time. The private detective business
is never very good in Miami, and
it’s worse when you have to be tem-
porarily careful to stay strictly with-
in the law. Fd had a blunt warning
from the Miami chief of police that
one more step outside of it would
lose my license, and I was being
temporarily careful.

“Then Mrs. Wolfendon would
like you to call at her home at
exactly three P.M. today. Is that
time suitable?”

It was an hour off, and the Wol-
fendons’ Miami Beach mansion
was a forty-five-minute drive from
my office. But you don’t say no to
multi-millionaires. Joshua Wolfen-
don was chairman of the board of
Wolfendon Plastics, which grosses
some four hundred million a year.

I said, “I'll be there.”

The Wolfendon home was big
even by Miami-Beach standards. A
uniformed maid answered the front
door, led me through a front room

2

resembling a hotel lobby, through
a couple of others resembling ball-
rooms, and finally to a small,
neatly-furnished study. George
Harbor and Mrs. Wolfendon were
in the study.

When the maid had moved off,
I studied the two. The woman was
about twenty-five, a lovely, delicate-
featured blonde with the kind of
body which made most other
women look like slobs. I knew
from newspaper accounts at the
time of her Cinderella marriage
three years before that she had
been a photographer’s model in
New York when she ran into
Wolfendon.

George Harbor was a good-look-
ing, well-muscled man of about
thirty with jet-black hair and eyes
to match. He looked me up and
down too.

“You seem to have the physical
qualifications, Mr. Stander,” he
said finally. “What are you? About
six three and two twenty?”

“About,” I said. “Physical quali-
fications for what?”

“Acting as a bodyguard.” Then
he remembered he hadt per-
formed introductions. “Marie, this
is Mr. Harold Stander. Mrs. Wol-
fendon, Mr. Stander.”

I wondered at his familiar use of
his employer’s first name. Later,
when he referred to Mr. Wolfen-

MANHUNT

don as Josh, I wondered still more.
Still later I learned he was a first
cousin of Joshua Wolfendon, and
had more of the status of a family
member than of an employee.

When. Marie Wolfendon and I
had murmured polite things to
each other, Harbor said, “Show Mr.
Stander the letters, Marie.”

Rising, she crossed the small
room to a desk and removed two
envelopes from a drawer. I couldn’t
help admiring the graceful sway of
her hips as she crossed the room. I
wasn’t alone. George Harbor
couldn’t help it either.

Returning, she handed me only
one of the envelopes first. It was
postmarked St. Louis and was ad-
dressed in crabbed longhand to
Miss Marie Carling at a New York
City address. There was no return
address. I frowned when I noted
the postmark date was three years
old, but I didn’t comment. I with-
drew the single sheet inside.

The letter, in the same crabbed
handwriting, read:

Dear Marie:

You must have known what
the news of your intended mar-
riage to that notorious and
ancient playboy would do to
me. How many times have I
told you I won’t, repeat won't,
live without you? If you take
this step, I swear I'll take steps
too. I havent yet decided
whether Pll kill you, or myself,
or both of us. But, for God's

THE THREAT

sake, change your mind before
it’s too late.
With undying love and
deadly seriousness,
Dave

I looked inquiringly at Marie
Wolfendon.

“I got that just after Joshua’s
and my engagement was an- —
nounced in the newspapers,” she
said. “It’s from a boy I used to go
with in my home town of Wash-
ington, Missouri. His name is
David Carr.”

“Show it to your future hus-
band?” I asked.

She shook her blonde head. “I
couldn’t. Not because I was afraid
for him to know Pd had a high-
school puppy-love affair, but be-
cause of the way David referred to
him in the letter. I—I thought it
might hurt his feelings.”

I knew what she meant. Josh
Wolfendon had inherited his con-
trol of Wolfendon Plastics, and
though he was chairman of the
board, the only actual work he did
was to preside at the annual stock-
holders’ meeting. Before his mar-
riage, he’d spent most of his time
in New York night clubs, The de-
scription was accurate enough to
hurt, including the word “ancient.”
He was double his wife’s age.

I grunted and looked pointedly
at the second letter in her hand,

“Before I show you this other *
one, I want you to understand |
about David,” she said. “It wasn’t

3

anything but a puppy-love affair.
We broke up almost a year before
I left Missouri for New York.”

When she paused, I asked, “Then
why was he so upset about you
marrying another man?”

“He never accepted the breakup.
He made some awful scenes, in-
cluding a suicide attempt on my
front porch. He cut his wrists. He
recovered and was committed to
the state mental hospital. He was
still there when I moved to New
York. The next I heard from him
was the letter you just read.”

“Do anything about the letter?”

I asked.
~ “I didn’t report it to the police,
if that’s what you mean. I wrote
his folks in Washington, Missouri
about it. They wrote back that he
was just being dramatic, and to
ignore it. They said that when he
was released from the state mental
hospital, his psychiatrist had told
them he was emotionally imma-
ture, but perfectly sane and defin-
itely not dangerous. I decided to
take their advice and ignore the
letter. I never heard from him
again until this came in the morn-
ing mail.”

She handed me the second en-
velope, which was addressed, in
the same crabbed handwriting as
the first, to Mrs. Marie Wolfendon
at her present address. The post-
mark was Miami and the date yes-
terday’s. :

I slipped the letter from the en-
velope. It read:

4

\

Dear Marie:

After three years of trying to
forget you, I’ve given up. Life
without you is hopeless. I’ve
finally come to a decision. Pm
going to die, but I’m not leav-
ing you behind. You're going
to die first.

Expect me,
Dave

Looking up from the letter, I
said, “Have you reported this to
the police yet?”

George Harbor said, “We don’t
want any publicity, and if possible,
we don’t want Josh disturbed by
having to know about it. That’s
why we called in a private de-
tective.”

I looked at him so long, he red-
dened slightly. Then I said, “You
have a slightly wrong slant on
things. Private detectives are just
supplements to the police, not sub-
stitutes. If I took this assignment
without reporting the situation to
the police, and Mrs. Wolfendon
got killed despite my efforts, I'd
lose my license before the funeral.
Let’s get something straight right
now. If I take this assignment, the
police see those letters. I'd also sug-
gest that you take Mr. Wolfendon
into your confidence. He’s going to
be a devil of a lot more upset if
he learns about this from some cop
who drops around to question him,
instead of learning it from you.”

Marie Wolfendon said, “Oh,”
and wrung her hands together.

MANHUNT

George Harbor ruefully rubbed
his nose. “I told you it would be
best to tell Josh all about it, and
call the police, Marie. Mr. Stander’s
experienced in these things. We'd
better take his advice.”

“Josh will be furious that I never
told him about the first letter,” she
said,

“He'll get over it,’ Harbor told
her. “He might not if he found it
out from some other source.”

We let her stew the matter
over without further help from
either of us. Finally she said in a
small voice, “All right, if you both
think it’s best. IIl tell Josh as soon
as he comes home.”

The decision made me feel bet-
ter. A month previously I might
have accepted the case on any basis
she wanted. But temporarily I
wasn’t doing anything at all which
might offend, or even irritate the
police.

I said, “Now let’s define exactly
what you want to engage me for.
Just as a bodyguard to keep con-
stant watch over Mrs. Wolfendon,
or as an investigator to track down
David Carr and get him salted
away?”

This brought on some discussion
between her and Harbor. They f-
nally decided they wanted some of
both. The mansion was virtually
impregnable, being equipped with
burglar-proof screens in all windows
- and inside bolts on all doors. In ad-
dition it had a burglar alarm sys-
tem. To top all this, everybody in

THE THREAT

the place, with the exception of a
housekeeper and a maid who slept
in, owned a gun and knew how to
use it. Harbor said that pending
apprehension of David Carr, he,
Joshua Wolfendon and Mrs. Wol-
fendon would all sleep with pistols
under their pillows.

It was therefore unnecessary for
me to furnish bodyguard protection
except when Marie Wolfendon
wanted to leave the house. They
decided that the rest of the time
I could devote to trying to track
down David Carr,

I said, “Will you give me a de-
scription of David Carr, please.”
“He’s just my age,” she said.
“Twenty-five. He’s about six feet
tall and weighs about a hundred
sixty pounds. He’s rather thinly
built, and stoops slightly. He has
strawberry-blonde hair, worn long,
and blue eyes. Of course this de-
scription is four years old, and he
may have changed since then.”

“Got a picture of him?” I asked.

She shook her head.

As my client had no plans to
leave the house any more that day,
I arranged to show the next morn-
ing, and departed with the two let-
ters. I took them straight to Miami
Beach police headquarters,

I found Lieutenant Sam Curry
going over reports in his cubby-
hole of an office. At the moment I
wasn’t in any better favor with ,
the Miami Beach police than I was
in the city, and I didn’t expect a
friendly reception. I didn’t get one.

5

He looked up and growled,
“What do you want?”

I handed him the two letters and
told him about my conference with
Marie Wolfendon and George
Harbor. He thawed a little, but not
much.

“What’s your angle?” he asked.
` “Angle?”

“You don’t expect me to believe
you're interested in this for a mere
bodyguarding fee, do you? Not
after that smelly jewelry insurance
deal you pulled. Or the equally
smelly divorce evidences you have
a habit of rigging.”

“Believe what you please,” I told
him. “There’s no angle, and I’ve
given you everything I know.”

Apparently he decided to believe
me, with reservations. He rubbed a
large hand over his crew-cut and
scowled. “Got a description of this
joker?” he asked.

I passed on the description Mrs.
Wolfendon had given me, and fore-
stalled his next question by, telling
him no pictures were available.

“We'll send a man out to inter-
view her,” he said. “Put ow a want
on David Carr. Stake out the Wol-
fendon home. Any other sugges-
tions?”

“Might check with the Wash-
ington, Missouri, police,” I said. He
has folks there. Possibly they have
his Miami address.”

“Yeah,” Curry said. “We'll try it
for size. Anything else you want
to tell me?”

“Just that Mrs. Wolfendon wants

6

her letters back. She wants to show
them to her husband.”

The lieutenant frowned, but he
let me have them back. However,
he admonished me to hang onto
them, as they’d be needed as evi-
dence when and if David Carr was
picked up.

The next morning | arrived at
the Wolfendon home at nine sharp.
The maid showed me into a dinette
where Joshua Wolfendon and his
wife were having breakfast. George
Harbor wasn’t present.

Joshua Wolfendon was bronzed
and still muscular at fifty, with a
full head of graying hair and a
relatively unlined face. He seemed
a little petulant about being brought
into his wife’s confidence at such a
late date, but otherwise he was
pleasant enough.

“Sit down, Mr. Stander,” he said
after introductions. “Had break-
fast?”

“Thanks,” I said. “Ill just take
coffee.”

He told the maid to bring me
some coffee.

I gathered from the ensuing con-
versation that Marie had told him
the whole story when he returned
from a yacht race the previous af-
ternoon. Apparently it upset him,
but he had gotten over it, as George
Harbor had predicted he would.

I learned that a police officer had
interviewed Mrs. Wolfendon short-
ly after her husband had arrived
home, and she had repeated the
same story she told me. The officer

MANHUNT

had told them that the house would
be kept under surveillance, and
suggested that Mrs. Wolfendon go
out as little as possible, even when
accompanied by me as a body-
guard.

Wolfendon asked if I still had
the letters, and I showed them to
him. He scowled at the reference
to himself as a notorious and an-
cient playboy, but made no com-

ment. When he handed them back,

I put them in my pocket.

“I think the arrangements you
made with my wife yesterday are
adequate, Stander,” he said. “With
George and me in the house, there’s
no point in your staying here
nights. My room is right across the
hall from Marie’s, and I could get
to her in seconds if she yelled. Pm
a dead shot with a pistol. As a mat-
ter of fact, Marie is, too. Taught
her myself. And all of us will keep
pistols in our rooms for the time
being. Not that I think we'll need
them. It would take a professional
burglar to get in this house.”

A phone bell sounded. Without
getting up, Marie reached across
to lift an extension phone from a
wall nook near the table.

“Wolfendon residence,” she said.

Her husband and I could clearly
hear the low-toned voice of the
caller. “Marie?”

ae {He

“David, honey.”

Marie drew in her breath in a
gasp.

“Tm coming to get you, Marie,”

THE THREAT

the voice droned on. “Not this min-
ute, but soon. Don’t think you can
escape by staying in that prison you
live in. I can break any lock ever
invented, and short any burglar
alarm system there is. And don’t
think the police you have around
your house will protect you. I saw
them there. I walked right past
them an hour ago. lIl walk right
past them again when I come for
you. Expect me.”

A click sounded and Marie slow-
ly hung up the phone. “My God!”
she said. “He really means to kill
me.”

Before either Wolfendon or I
could say anything, George Harbor
burst into the kitchen. “I heard it,”
he said excitedly. “Marie, I picked
up the extension in my office at
the same time you answered,”

Then he saw me and gave me a
nervous nod of recognition. He
turned to Wolfendon. “This Carr
must be a maniac, Josh, Could you
hear what he said?”

Wolfendon said, “I heard it.”

“Maybe he is a lock expert. May-
be he does know how to short the
burglar alarm system. And maybe
he could walk past the police. I
think we'd better reconsider and
have Stander move in here, There’s
plenty of room.”

Wolfendon looked at me and I
shrugged. He looked at his wife
and she said in a low voice, “I think
Pd feel safer. If David did manage
to break in somehow, there’d be
nobody to stop him until he got to

7

the top of the stairs. Mr. Stander
could sleep in the downstairs bed-
room and act as a sort of first line
of defense.”

Wolfendon looked back at me,
and I said, “You're paying the fee.
Pll play it any way you want. Only
the first thing to do is report that
phone call to the police.”

I rose, rounded the table to the
phone and dialled police head-
quarters.

4.

The rest of that day was unevent-
ful. I drove back to my Miami
apartment, packed a bag and re-
turned to Miami Beach. I found
the front door bolted when I got
back. George Harbor peered at me
through the thick glass before
opening it. Obviously the phone
call had brought.on a maximum
security effort.

They put me in a guest room
on the first floor next to the serv-
ants’ quarters. Nothing happened
all day except a phoned report from
Lieutenant Curry that David Carr
had still not been apprehended,
but that an intensive search was
underway for him.

We all retired at eleven P.M. Be-
fore going to bed I accompanied
Joshua Wolfendon on a tour of the
entire house while he inspected
each window and each door bolt,

It didn’t seem very likely to me
that, despite his boasts, David Carr
would get into the house that
night. |

8

A ringing phone awakened me.
I glanced at the luminous face of
my watch, saw it was three A.M,
and sleepily reached for the bed-
side phone before I realized I
wasn’t in my own bed. Coinci-
dentally the extension was in the
same relative place that my own
bedside phone is.

I put it to my ear just as Marie
Wolfendon’s voice said, “Hello.”

I heard the click of still another
extension phone being lifted, then —
a low voice rasped, “It’s not hello,
Marie. It’s good-by.”

“David!” Marie gasped.

“Yeah, David, honey. Expect me.
Expect me at any minute. Pm
coming after you right now.”

The phone went silent. I con-
tinued to hear the sound of Marie’s
breathing, then two clicks as two
extension phones hung up.

Cradling my phone, I leaped
from bed, groped for the bedlamp
switch, pulled a robe over my
pajamas and grabbed my gun. I
didn’t bother with slippers.

A small night light in the upper
hall furnished enough illumination
for me to see my way up the stairs.
I took them three at a time. At the
top I found Joshua Wolfendon’s
bedroom door open and Wolfen-
don, wearing only pajamas, in the
act of reaching for the knob of his
wife’s bedroom door. At the far
end of the hall George Harbor was
just coming from his room dressed
in a robe. Both men had pistols in
their hands,

MANHUNT

I started to yell, “Hold it!” to
Wolfendon, but it was too late. He
already had the door open and
stood framed in the darkened door-
way, the dim glow of the nightlight
in the hall silhouetting his form
to his wife inside the room.

I sensed the tragic mistake that
was going to happen, and braced
myself against the roar of the shot
even before it sounded. In the close
confines of Marie’s bedroom it
sounded like a cannon.

Josh Wolfendon went over back-
ward like a falling timber. I didn’t
have to move any nearer to see that
he had died instantly. The slug
caught him squarely in the center
of the forehead and took along a
section of skull as big as a tennis
ball when it exited at the back of
his head.

A dozen feet away George Har-
bor halted with his mouth gaping
open.

Hugging the wall to one side of
the door to Marie’s room, I called,
“Hold your fire, Mrs. Wolfendon,
Turn on your light.”

“Is he dead?” her voice came
thinly.

“Yeah,” I said in a dry tone.
“Turn on your light. I’m coming
in.”

Light came up in the room and
I cautiously stepped through the
door. Marie was sitting up in bed
in a filmy nightgown through
which her flesh showed pinkly in
the glow of the bedlamp. She held
a snub-nosed thirty-eight in her

THE THREAT

hand. When she saw me, she let it
drop to the bedspread.

“You sure he’s dead?” she asked
fearfully.

“Certain,” I said. “Better put on
a robe.”

She glanced down and became
conscious of the filminess of her
nightgown. Flushing, she pulled
the sheet over her bosom. I picked
a thin robe from the: foot of her
bed, tossed it to her and returned
to the hall.

George Harbor was standing
over his dead employer, looking
down at him blankly. He glanced
at me, his mouth still open.

“She thinks she
Carr,” I said. “I'll let you handle
the hysterics when she comes out.
I'll be phoning the police.”

I went into the dead man’s room
to phone. Before I could dial,
Marie stepped into the hall and
went into the hysterics I had
phophesied.

Stepping back to the doorway, I
watched Harbor’s ineffectual efforts
to quiet her screaming. I shouted
over the racket. “Who’s the family
doctor?”

It took two shouts to get the
question to him. He said preoccu-
piedly, “Dr. Philip Hudson,” and
returned to his back patting.

I phoned the doctor before I
phoned the police. He got there
first and had Marie back in bed,
under a sedative before the police
arrived.

Lieutenant Sam Curry was the

9

shot David -

chief investigating officer. He
talked to me first, and after hearing
my account of events, he talked to
George Harbor. It developed that
Harbor had heard the phone con-
versation between David Carr and
Marie too,

“Seems obvious it was just an un-
fortunate accident,’ Curry said.
“Damn shame, a thing like this
happening. Wolfendon should
have known his wife would be so
upset after that call that she’d shoot
when he opened the door.”

“He didn’t have time to think,”
I said. “He was rushing to protect
her.”

Curry -said, “Well, there isn’t
anything we can do tonight. The
doc says she’s under a sedative and
- can’t be questioned. Not much
point in questioning her anyway,
since we know what happened.
- Have to eventually, of course, as a
matter of routine. She'll possibly
even have to appear at an inquest.
But that will be routine too. I’m
convinced it was an accident. Any
idea where that call came from?”

Harbor shook his head and I
said, “No. But Pll bet Carr never
intended to make a try for her to-
night. Or any other night, for that
matter.”

The lieutenant raised his brows.
“Why do you say that?”

“If he’s serious about killing her,
why does he.give advance warn-
ing? Tonight, for instance, he’d
know his call would alert the whole
house, plus the police outside. He’s

10

a nut, but he can’t be that stupid.
I think he’s just been trying to
scare her pants off, and never in-
tends to do anything else.”

He thought this over, finally said
dubiously, “Maybe, but we'll play
it like he’s serious, I’m doubling the
outside guard.”

“Get a reply back from Washing-
ton, Missouri yet?” I asked.

He nodded. “Early this evening.
A long, chatty wire from the chief
of police which boiled down to
nothing. He verified the story of
Carr’s confinement to the state
mental hospital. Even knew about
the threatening letter he sent Mrs.
Wolfendon before she was married.
His folks discussed it with him
when she wrote them about it. But
he has no idea where Carr is now.
His folks died in an auto accident
two years ago, and Carr was back
for the funeral. Hasn’t been seen
or heard from since. At the time he
was playing in an orchestra in St.
Louis. Played the clarinet.”

“Hmm,” I said. “Miami police
co-operating in the search for Carr?”

“Yeah. If we don’t find him soon,
I’m going to ask for a house-to-
house search.”

It was nearly five by the time the
body had been taken away and the
police had left. Harbor and I made
another check of the doors and
windows and went back to bed.

5.
The next morning Dr. Hudson

MANHUNT

dropped by with a nurse, gave
Marie another sedative and told the
nurse not to let anyone disturb
the patient all day. George Harbor
retired to his office to make funeral
arrangements, and I sat around do-
ing nothing.

At nine I phoned Lieutenant
Curry and learned that David
Carr was still at large.

At ten I decided to do at least
something to justify my fee, and
made a long-distance call to St.
Louis. I called the Exeter Investi-
gating Service and got hold of Carl
Exeter himself.

“Harry Stander from Miami,” I
told him. “Got a chore for you.”

“Fine,” he said. “Shoot.”

“I want a check on a man named
David Carr, last known to be play-
ing clarinet with a St. Louis orches-
tra about two years back.” I gave
him the description. “At present
he’s holed up somewhere in Miami
or near by. See if you can track
down some former associate who
knows his address here.”

“That all you got on him?”
Exeter asked. “You don’t know
what orchestra he played with?”

“No,” I said. “I know: it’s not
much. I’m playing an outside
chance.”

“Do the best I can,” Exeter said.
“Where can I reach you?”

I gave him the Wolfendon tele-
phone number.

At noon the housekeeper pre-
pared some lunch for Harbor and
me. The nurse took Marie’s lunch

THE THREAT

up to her room. Shortly afterward
Lieutenant Sam Curry phoned to
tell me the inquest was scheduled
for the day after tomorrow and
ask my opinion as to whether I
thought Marie Wolfendon would
be sufficiently recovered from shock
to attend by then. I told him he’d
have to ask Dr. Hudson.

At one P.M. Carl Exeter phoned
me from St. Louis.

“This was an easy one,” he said.
“All I had to do was phone police
headquarters.”

“Oh? What'd you find out?”

“October sixth last. Just a little
over a year ago. He committed
suicide.”

“What?” I said. “You mean he’s
dead?”

“Suicides usually are.”

“That can’t be,” I said slowly.
“He’s been sending letters and
making phone calls from Miami.”

“Not this guy. Name fits, descrip-
tion fits, and he played clarinet in
a local night-club orchestra. Birth-
place was Washington, Missouri.”

“What were the circumstances?”
I asked.

“Blew his brains out. Left a note
asking that a woman friend be in-
formed of his death.”

“What woman friend?”

“Someone down your way. A
Mrs. Marie Wolfendon. The police
sent her a routine letter explaining
his death.” S

I didn’t say anything for a time.
Then I said, “Thanks a lot. Send
me your bill.”

If

After I hung up, I sat thinking
for a long time. Then I rose, left
the house without telling anyone
and drove to Miami. I drove to the
apartment of Professor Emertis
Harlon Manners, who is a retired
Miami University Professor, and
knows as much about handwriting
as anyone in the country.

_ It took the old man about ten
minutes of study with a magnify-
ing glass to come to a conclusion.

“It’s a good forgery,” he said.
“But this second letter wasn’t writ-
ten by the same person who wrote
the first. I can show you in detail
why, if you’re interested.”

“Never mind,” I told him. “PI
take your word for it.”

Back at the Wolfendon mansion
George Harbor met me at the
door. “Where have you been?” he
asked angrily. “You're supposed to
be protecting Marie.”

“Against what?” I inquired.
“She’s not in any danger. Except
possibly from the law. Let’s go talk
to her.”

He followed me to the stairs, pro-
testing, “Dr. Hudson said she’s not
to be disturbed.”

I didn’t pay any attention to him,
He followed me clear to her room
door, still protesting. I gave the
door a gentle knock.

When no one answered, I opened
it and looked in. Marie was asleep
on the bed, and the, nurse was out
of the room. I went in, held the
door for Harbor to follow me, and
closed it behind us. I touched

I2

Marie’s shoulder and her eyes
popped open.

I took a chair and waved Harbor
to another. He glared at me and
remained standing,

“Suit yourself,” I said. “But you'll
take this better sitting down. This
was a pretty cleverly executed mur-
der.”

Marie’s eyes suddenly slitted and
George Harbor’s face smoothed of
all expression. “What are you talk-
ing about?” he said. l

“The murder you and Marie en-
gineered of her husband. It was a
smart idea, getting me in as an im-
partial witness so that I could tes-
tify how the ‘accident’ happened.
It wouldn’t have stood up nearly
as well with only George to testify.
Somebody might have guessed you
were lovers and had made up the
story.”

Neither said anything.

“TH spell it out for you so you
can be sure I’m not just guessing,”
I said. “Over a year ago Marie got
word from the St. Louis police that
David Carr had committed suicide.
When the two of you decided to
dispose of her husband, she got the
brilliant idea of making use of that
old crank letter he’d sent her three
years before. She forged a second
letter, or maybe you did, George,
and sent it to herself. Then you
called me in, ostensibly to protect
her from Carr, but really to act as
an unsuspecting witness to the
‘accident.’ You, George, were the
voice on the phone. Both times.”

MANHUNT

“You're crazy,” he spat at me. “I
was here in the house both times.”

“Sure,” I said. “You dialed the
service number. Every exchange
has a number you can dial which
makes your own phone ring. It’s
for the convenience of repair men
and isn’t listed, but you can find
out what it is easily enough. Any
telephone repair man could tell
you. You dialled the service num-
ber from one of the extensions,
then disguised your voice.”

Harbor started to open his
mouth, but Marie gestured him to
silence. “What do you intend to do
about it?” she asked coolly. “In-
form the police?”

I shook my head. “Cut myself in,
- baby. How many millions do you
inherit from Joshua? Twenty?
Thirty? Pll be easy on you. PI
settle for one.”

“And if we say no?”

“Lieutenant Curry wants those
two letters back for evidence, you
know. It’s extremely unlikely hed
have the handwriting compared.
Unless I suggested it. Once he did,
you're both finished. A comparison
would prove the danger from
David Carr was not only a myth,
but a deliberate fraud. He wouldn’t
stop then until he had you both in
jail for murder. He’d find out just
what happened to Carr, just as I

found out, and discover you’d been
informed of his death over a year
ago. Then he’d dig for evidence
that you two are lovers. I imagine
hed find some. You two didn’t
come to the point of murder just
looking at each other across the
dinner table. There'll be tourist-
court owners who will be able to
identify you as the couple who reg-
istered as man and wife on certain
dates. And Curry will find them.
He'll build a case you couldn’t
possibly beat.”

Marie looked at me silently for a
long time. Then she said in a to-
tally calm voice, “I don’t see any-
thing we can do except agree to
Mr. Stander’s terms, George. One
million dollars. As soon as the
estate is settled.”

She looked at him and a message
of understanding passed between
them. It was a message which
meant, “We'll agree now, and take
care of him later. Just as we took
care of Josh.”

I felt a little tingle along my
spine. I hadn’t expected to make a
million dollars in absolute safety.
It was going to be a contest. Either
I’d collect or die. But it was worth
the risk. I was willing to keep one
eye over my shoulder.

If I could manage to live I'd be
a millionaire.

aH

THE THREAT

13

He was a pleasant-looking guy, this Falkoner.
He even looked pleasant when he murdered...

id p N N
iN
iy

Ñi ;

RY \

A AN MITTS
U AVAL?

HE STEWARDESS came by check-
Te reservations,

“Your name please, sir.”

“Simmons,” said Falkoner. He
was lean and dark, with long-fin-
gered hands shaped like a piano
player’s and cool grey eyes that ob-
served almost everything. A thin

14

GENIN

PRO

BY
JOE GORES

white scar running across his chin
made his otherwise pleasant face
sullen; In his shoulder holster was
a .357 magnum on a cut-down
frame and in his bleak heart was
death. Falkoner was a professional
murderer,

During the thirty-five minute

flight from Los Angeles the lone
woman huddled across the aisle
aroused his melancholy contempt.
She wore a cheap brown hat and
had an old straw purse on the seat
next to her. Updrafts over the rim
of the desert made her tight fists
whiten with strain and her eyes
burn with fear. She was disgusting:
he knew dying was swift and easy.

A slight sandy-haired man took
his arm as he left the plane at Palm
Springs and said: “Did Mr. David
send you down?” His voice was
soft and intimate and he wore a
red and green sports shirt, khaki
pants, and open sandals.

Looking him over, Falkoner nod-
ded coolly. Little men who did not
deal in the two great realities of life
and death held scant interest for
him.

“Fine. I’m Langly. My car’s over
here in the lot.”

It was a blue and white 1957
Chrysler. On the blacktop road be-
yond the airport the sun was warm
but the air dry and fresh; scraggly
clumps of dusty green vegetation
spotted the flat desert like regi-
mented billiard balls on a giant
yellow table. They passed a man
and woman on horseback, wearing
riding breeches, who waved gaily.
A Cadillac Eldorado roared by like

an escaped rocket, manned by two

bleached blondes goggled with
bright-rimmed sun glasses.
“Where’s ‘the woman?” asked

Falkoner.
“She’s got a shack in a date grove

PRO

near Rancho Mirage—it’s a new
section this side of Palm Desert.”

“Works?”

“Mex place in Palm Desert. She
tells fortunes, goes to work at five
—she’ll be home now.” Langly’s
voice tingled and his bright eyes
sparkled ripely. “I guess Mr. David
wants her pretty bad, huh? I just
notified Los Angeles last night, and
you're here from ’Frisco today to—”

“Let’s go out to her place.”

Langly drove swiftly as if stung
by Falkoner’s abruptness. They
passed the plush Thunderbird Club
and turned left on to a dirt road
before the Shadow Mountain Club.
Dry clouds of tan dust swirled out
behind them.

“When word came she'd left
Scottsdale I thought she might try
it here—the country’s a lot the
same. Then I spotted her at the
Mex place from her photo and—”

“Are we close?”

Langly drove across an old wash
beyond which the date groves
started.

“Next road to the right, first
house on the left,” he said. His
voice was sharp and piqued. “Only
house.”

“Okay. Drive past.”

Down the narrow roadway Fal-
koner saw the tail of a black Mer-
cury station wagon protruding
from behind a palm tree, The shack
was hidden by trees.

“That her Merc?”

“Yes. A ’55 Monterey with wood
panelling. A beauty.”

15

After a moment of thought Fal-
koner said: “Turn around up here
and let me off at the roadway.
Then you go back to town.”

As he followed directions the
other’s actions had a slightly fem-
inine quality. Falkoner got out,
walked around the car, and drop-
ped a sealed envelope through the
window into Langly’s lap. The
envelope crinkled.

“What sort of work do you do?”
Falkoner asked.

“Tve been parking cars at one
of the clubs.” Then the voice got
malicious; excitement made it al-
most lisp. “But I did good work
on this and I’m going to make sure
Mr. David knows about it and
about how you've treated me.”

“Stick to parking cars, nance,”
Falkoner replied. Leaning very
close he added confidentially :
“You’ve got a leaky face.”

In his steady eyes Langly saw
death’s cold scrutiny. He rammed
the drive button hurriedly and the
Chrysler swept him away down the
dusty road.

Palm fronds tickled the roof drily
and something gnawed with cau-
tious haste under the sagging
wooden porch. Falkoner’s shoes
made cat-sounds as he crossed to
the screen door. After knocking on
the ‘frame he cupped his eyes to
peer into the living room. The
linoleum was so old it was worn
almost white. Across the room
sagged a beaten-down green couch,
in one corner a red easy chair that

16

looked almost new. There were
three straight-backed chairs and
one leg of the wooden table in the
center of the floor had been cracked
and stapled. A plaque reading
GOD BLESS OUR HOME dec-
orated one wall.

Before he could call, Genevieve
came through the inner doorway,
She was as tall as he, nearly six
feet, her face fine-featured: straight
nose, high cheekbones, thin hungry
lips. A red silk scarf was knotted
loosely around her neck and her
striking figure was displayed by a
tight black dress, There were three
hairpins in her mouth and her
hands were smoothing her hair.

“Yes?” Her voice was husky.

The screen door was unlocked
so Falkoner stepped in. When the
light touched his features she went
stark white and her mouth dropped
the hairpins. She ran against him,
slanted dark eyes smoky with ter-
ror, but he pushed her back.

“Rather a come-down,
vieve,” he said.

He went through the inner door-
way to see a small dirty kitchen
with dishes piled in the sink, and
a bedroom with a double bed that
looked as if two large animals had
been fighting on it. The room had
a close, intimate smell. As he don-
ned a pair of thin grey gloves he
let Genevieve’s voice draw him
back to the front room.

“What does he want with me?
He— whoever killed Max... I
didn’t see who killed Max.”

MANHUNT

Gene-

“If you hadn't left Arizona he
might have believed you.”

“I got tired of the stinking desert
and the stinking men with only
one thing on their stinking minds.”

Falkoner raised his eyebrows.
“The men at the Mex place are dif-
ferent? The desert here is dif-
ferent?”

“T had to eat.” Her mouth made
the next word a curse. “Men. You
and Mr. David and all the rest.
Money and power and women,
that’s all you want.” Then the
strength left her and her hands
crawled up the black dress like
broad white spiders to her bosom.

“Isn’t he ever going to let me live
in peace?” she whispered.

Falkoner asked: “Did you really
think he could let you live at all?”
His quick hands closed around her
throat like an act of love.

She scrabbled wildly at the iron-
hard forearms, reached for his eyes,
tried to kick him. She was strong,
but the piano-player fingers pos-
sessed all the immeasurable
strength of evil. A chair was over-
turned, They went around the
table in a slow grotesque dance like
cranes mating. He drove her down
on the couch and kneed her
viciously. The thrashing body, the
smell of sweat and perfume
aroused him: it was a pity there
was no time to have her before she
died. A great pity.

Her face darkened, her move-
ments became erratic, lost volition,
ceased. Finally her tongue, pink as

PRO

a baby’s thumb, came out of one
corner of her mouth and spittle ran
down her cheek. There was a
muted sound like cloth tearing. She
sprawled under him in a lewd doll-
pose of surrender, eyes staring be-
yond him into the infinite horror of

death.

From the pay phone at a gas sta-
tion on South Palm Drive, Fal-
koner reversed the charges to a
Tuxedo exchange number in San
Francisco. While awaiting his con-
nection he placidly smoked a ciga-
rette. The operator said;

“T have a collect call for anyone
from a Mr. Simmons in Palm
Springs. Will you accept the
charges?”

A flat voice answered: “Put him
on.”

Falkoner ground out his cigarette
against the window of the booth
and said “Yes” into the receiver,
There was no response so he hung
up, paid for-his gas, and left Palm
Springs, driving west across the
desert on U.S, ror. At U.S. 99 he
went north to Colton, cut across to
US. 66 on a dirt road, and again
pointed the Mercury at the far thin
glow of Los Angeles. He counted
bugs as they squashed against the
windshield, and at nine o’clock ate
Mexican food in a small adobe
diner. It had been a clean hit: her
body, wrapped in a blanket, was
stuffed in the spare tire well under
the floor section of the Mercury,
and a suitcase full of her personal

17

things rode beside him. Yet he
lacked the usual drained empty
peace. Around midnight some
instinct made him pull in at a mo-
tel near Glendora, two hours from
the city.

The single row of white cottages
was neat and freshly painted; each
unit had a covered carport with a
door leading directly inside. Above
the first cabin a large red neon sign
proclaimed MOTEL with vacancy
underneath in smaller pink letters.
After he had rung the bell twice
the office light went on and an old
man with a sour face like the taste
of lemon came out of the back
room rubbing his eyes. An old-
fashioned nightshirt covered bowed
legs.

“Is your last unit in the line
empty?”

Clicking his false teeth together
he leaned past Falkoner as if to
make sure there was a last unit.
He smelled sourly of sleep.

igs So rs

“Fine. I have trouble sleeping if
I can hear traffic passing. How
much?”

“Five bucks.”

“Commercial rates.”

“Well— four, then.”

Falkoner did the other careful
things the years had taught him:
wrote ‘Simmons’ on the register in
a slanting backhand script that was
not his own, mixed up the license
number in a way that could have
been accidental, and took Gene-
vieve’s suitcase with him before

18

locking the car. Opening the motel
room door he breathed deeply;
orange groves flanking the high-
way made the air faintly sweet.
Maybe it was getting to him. Five
years ago he’d never considered the
possibility of anything going
wrong. Tomorrow I'll dump her
with Dannelson, he thought, and
maybe get lined up with a little
piece. I’ve been living like a monk
lately.

“Let me talk to Danny,” Fal-
koner said, rubbing his eyes and
cursing the grey fingers of smog
reaching out from Los Angeles.
Sunday morning traffic made it dif-
ficult to hear.

“Who’s calling?”

“Falkoner.”

“Falkoner? I’m sorry, Mr. Dan-
nelson is out.”

Falkoner squeezed the receiver
tightly. The palm of his hand had
gone sweaty.

“Is Dannelson out or did he say
he was out?” he asked.

“Mr. Dannelson is out.”

There were muttered angry
words, a click, and Dannelson’s
voice came jovially over the wire.

“Hello, Jack? That damn fool
didn’t get your name right. Listen,
boy, S.F. said you have a parcel for
us. Where in hell are you?”

Falkoner hung up abruptly, re-
turned to the car, and tuned the
radio to a ten o'clock newscast. It
carried the item for which Dannel-
son’s clumsiness had prepared him.

MANHUNT

Palm Springs police were investi- -

gating the disappearance and pos-
sible murder of Genevieve Ostroff,
fortune-teller at the Green Cactus
bar in Palm Desert. Two boys play-
ing near her house had seen a man
carrying what looked like a blanket-
wrapped body to her black station
wagon. Investigating police had
found no sign of violence and her
clothes had been gone, but there
had been over seven hundred dol-
lars in small bills under the paper
lining of a dresser drawer. After
the first newscast Chester Langly,
parking lot attendant at the Blue
Owl, had furnished the description
of a man who had hitched a ride
with him from the airport to a
point near Genevieve’s house. A
man who had called himself Sim-
mons,

Damn that fairy Langly, Fal-
koner thought. The police were
easy, but Mr. David had given him
the contract for Genevieve person-
ally ... now he was too dangerous
to live. The word was already out:
lucky Danny’d been so anxious.
Los Angeles and Las Vegas and
San Diego— probably Tucson and
El Paso, too, because they’d figure
him to try for Mexico. No place
to run: and to run would mean ad-
mitting to himself he was afraid.
Suddenly his pale morose face
cleared. What if he went back to
San Francisco after Mr. David?
That was it. It was what they
should expect of Jack Falkoner.

The maid had finished his room.

PRO

He paid at the office for a week in
advance, then carried the heavy un-
wieldly package that was Genevieve
in through the side entrance and
dumped it on the bed.

A light blue 1955 Ford pulled
out behind him on the traffic circle
at Bakersfield. The tail job was
clumsy. Falkoner drove fast: this
boy mustn’t have time to get to a
phone. On the new freeway north
of Delano he suddenly floored the
accelerator and squealed into the
right-angle turn for the Earlimart
overpass, swung over to old U.S.
99, and pulled up in front of a little
general store he had remembered.
It was the run-down country cross-
roads sort of place occasionally sur-
viving in.the San Joaquin valley.
The sort of place to do what had
to be done.

A short man wearing dirty over-
alls and chewing a large cud of
tobacco came out.

“Fill it up— regular,” said Fal-
koner.

He waited in the store by the
vegetable counter. Three dirty
bare-footed children slammed
through the screen door and began
noisily clamouring at the candy
counter like puppies worrying a
bone. A tall faded lady in a washed-
out dress came from the bowels of
the store to scream harsh threats
at them. :

When the blue Ford rounded the
corner and braked sharply, Fal-
koner went out the door and

19

around behind the store to the
primitive outdoor restrooms. Lattice
works into which thick vines had
grown flanked the entrance. He
slammed the lean-to door loudly,
stepped out of sight behind the
vines, and took the magnum from
its shoulder holster. Feet scuffed in
the dust and foliage rustled. Door
hinges squeaked cautiously.

The young red-haired man had
freckles and a homely face and a
switchblade knife in one broad
paw. As he turned from the empty
shanty, puzzled, Falkoner stepped
around the lattice work and slam-
med the magnum down on his
hand. Pimples of sweat popped out
on his hard young face. The knife
fell. He snatched clumsily for the
magnum with his left hand, breath-
ing hoarsely, his eyes already sick
with the sure frightful knowledge
of defeat.

Falkoner’s gun rammed him in
the stomach, bending him over;
then it clipped him across the back
of the neck and knocked him to
his knees. A knee driven into his
freckled face upset him against the
wall. The magnum struck his
bright hair with a sound like a wet
rag slapping concrete. He tipped
forward on his face and was still.

Falkoner dragged him around
the corner of the shanty and killed
him.

The short man was still cleaning
bugs from the Mercury’s wind-
shield when the blue Ford dug out
and sped past the gas pumps.

20

Night had darkened San Fran-
cisco when Jack Falkoner took the
down ramp off the freeway at
Seventh, crossed Market, and went
up Larkin. He drove over the hill
to Pacific, turned right, crossed over
the Broadway tunnel on Mason,
and parked the Ford. His hands
shook a little as he checked the
magnum: going after Mr. David
was something like going up
against God. |

Turning downhill at Glover, a
narrow one-block alley, he walked
on the right-hand side, crossed over,
and came up the other side breath-
ing heavier from the incline. There
were no cars he knew, no people at
all, so he turned in at an ornate
wooden gate and climbed a series
of stone steps. In less than a min- |
ute he had opened the heavy oak
door with a small metal pick and
was prowling the five-room apart-
ment. His rubber soles made no
sound on the polished floors and
thick carpets. On Sundays Mr.
David and the girl he kept there
usually watched Ed Sullivan, but
tonight the apartment was empty.

I can wait, Falkoner thought as
he returned to the Ford, and slid
in behind the wheel.

A round hard object poked: the
base of his neck and a smooth voice
said: :

“Hands on the head, Sweets, and
slide over slow.”

Strangely, he thought of his first
hit. It had been in a car like this
and the man had said: Tm not

MANHUNT

afraid of you. He did not say any-
thing. A dark figure came erect in
the back seat and another crossed
the street swiftly to get in under
the wheel and hold a gun on Fal-
koner while the first one took the
magnum. Later the man had cried
and babbled and even prayed. Fal-
koner had been much younger then
and had laughed before shooting
him in the back of the head.

A long black sedan drifted
around the corner and crawled up
behind them. It was remarkably
like an undertaker’s car. When the
man at the wheel flipped his lights
twice the Ford pulled out. The se-
dan followed. They took Pine to
Presidio, cut over to Balboa, and
drove out through the dark still
Avenues decorously, like a funeral
procession. Falkoner’s head ached
and he felt sick to his stomach.
When he looked at the unfamiliar
face of the driver the man in the
back seat said “Don’t try it,
Sweets.” The driver stayed hunched
over with both hands on the wheel.
They would not let him smoke a
cigarette,

Surf grumbled against the ce-
ment breakwaters as the Ford
turned left onto the Great High-
way at Playland on the Beach. Only
a few rides and stalls were open,
for a chill March mist had rolled in
off the Pacific. The wipers
monotonously sucked haze from
the windshield. After several miles
they swung in facing the ocean on
a wide dirt lot where neckers

PRO

parked on moonlit nights. The
sedan drew up behind them, paral-
lel to the highway, with dimmed
lights. There were no other cars. A
tangled hedge of dark twisted cy-
press, bent and gnarled by the- in-
cessant wind, screened them from
the houses beyond the highway.

The doorhandle felt cold and slip-
pery to Falkoner’s fingers. Bitter
words flooded his mouth like bile
and his lips bled keeping them in:
Jack Falkoner is not afraid, Jack
Falkoner is not afraid ... He flung
open the door and threw himself
at the opening. Behind him some-
thing plopped twice. Eyes staring
in disbelief, he fell dizzily out of
the half-open door and crashed
down on one shoulder. He tried to
say something, he wanted to say
it, it was miportant: the whole sig-
nificance of his life had been only
death. He had meant no more than
a casual accident or a mild epi-
demic that snuffs out a few people
by blind chance. If they would just
give him a little time for change,
another month for living .. . Be-
fore he could ask, orange flame
spurted and lead ripped his throat,
slamming his head into the dirt
with an ineluctable finality,

“Pay me,” chortled Mr. David in
high good humor. The sedan had
turned by Fleishaker Zoo and was
threading through an expensive
residential district on broad Sloat
Avenue.

The man in the back seat with

2

him was dressed. in a camel’s hair
coat and had crisp wavy hair re-
ceding from his forehead. He had
once been a lawyer but had been
disbarred. With obvious reluctance
he took a hundred dollar bill from
his wallet and handed it to his em-
ployer.

“I still don’t see how you knew
hed come up here. I thought one
of the boys along the border would
tag him.”

Mr. David chuckled richly. He
wore too much cologne in a vain
effort to disguise the constant odor
of perspiration that clung. to his
obese body like the smell of bad
cooking. His heavy features were
shadowed by his hatbrim.

“Psychology, Norman, psychol-
ogy. Jack wasn’t afraid of me or
the Organization or Old Nick him-
self. It was his sort of stunt, to try
and take me with him. I’m sorry
about Red, though. I told him to
be careful but you know how kids
are.”

“How can you be so sure Fal-
koner got him?”

“The Ford. Jack would never
have had that car if Red was alive,
that for sure. And Jack was a bad
one, at that.”

“I like ’em bad,” put in the man
in the middle of the front seat. He
was removing a steel cylinder from
the muzzle of his .32, his deadly

hands fondling the revolver with
the quick and supple movements
of a musician fingering his guitar.
“And you can’t tell me Sweets
wasn’t scared. I saw his face when
he went under.”

Mr. David delicately shifted his
ponderous bulk and belched. His
weight made the seat coils creek
slightly.

“We'll never know now, will
we?” he demanded with unction.
As the car stopped for the light on
roth Avenue he added: “Take a left
here, Freddie. I’ve got a date with
a new girl.”

Down toward Playland a motor-
cycle siren whined thinly, like a
short-haired mongrel in cold
weather. The chilled huddle of peo-
ple could see the flat pink glow of
its close-set red eyes coming up at
them through the fog. Moaning
wind tore their breaths away in
grey tatters. Occasional cars whip-
ped past, wet tires hissing on the
shiny pavement. By the white
empty glare of their prowl car spot-

light, two wet-tunicked policemen

resembled grave robbers rolling
bodies as they lifted Falkoner’s
corpse by one shoulder to see if it
bore any life. On his face, almost
ferocious in its intensity, was frozen
an immutable expression of pure
terror.

Ht

22

MANHUNT

BY CE ors!” Punchy yelled.
NORMAN STRUBER C I slammed my hand on the
keys and the cash register drawer
shot open with a clang. A search-
light flashed in my eyes from the
front window of the store, and -I
yanked the bills out of the compart-
ments fast as I could and ducked
under the counter. The old guy
laying there let out a moan and I
bashed the heel of my .38 against
his skull, four, maybe five times,
fast.

Some punks expect fey T catch him Ali

me, and he See me to listen when he pleads.

“Give må a break”

23

“Out the back way!” I yelled,
and scooted along behind the coun-
ter to the little room in back, trip-
ping over Punchy’s heels and fall-
ing flat on my face. I scrambled to
my feet and gave him a hard shove
as a gun exploded out front and
liquor bottles crashed and splat-
tered on the shelves over my head.
“Move, you dumb jerk!” I screamed
at him. “The door!”

Right at that moment I realized
more than ever it pays to case a
joint before you move in. We got
out into the backyard, over to the
fence and climbed to the roof of a
low, flat-topped brick garage. The
string of garages ran clear to the
next street and we tore along the
roofs, and at the last one we swung
over the side and hung by our
hands and then dropped to the
ground. Just the way ld figured it.
We ran two blocks and ducked
into an alley that led onto Fulton
Street. It was early yet and most
of the stores were open and we
eased out of the alley and started
walking along slow with the rest
of the shoppers. Cool. Like two
innocent guys out for a stroll.

Punchy started flicking his head
around, nervous-like, and I shoved
my elbow into his ribs. “Relax,
jerk!” I told him. “Just walk.”

Ten minutes later we were in
that crumby basement, where
\Punchy lived with hjs old lady and
six brats upstairs. The old man left
nothing but dirty laundry when
he kicked off, so the old lady

24

worked while Punchy’s aunt
watched the brats. His name was
really Poncho, Poncho Santos, but
him being a pretty stupid guy it
wasn’t long before the guys got
around to calling him Punchy. It
was kind of a natural switch, and
he was dumb enough not to care.
Me and him got along swell. I told
him what to do and he did it.
I found out that’s the only kind
of a guy you can really trust. The
smart ones, the wise guys, you
never know when they’re going to
pull a fast one. They give you the
slick smile and they act like they
dig you as top man, and all the
time they’re just waiting to slip that
knife in your back. Like Manny
Kojak.

Yeah. Like Manny.

We went back by the furnace
and Punchy pulled the chain on
the dirty yellow light. “Jeez!” he
said, staring at me with those big .
black eyes, “I figure we gon get
hung up good that time, Rick.”

“Yeah, you clumsy jerk.”

“Jeeze; Rick 3°..."

“Next time I say move, man, you
really move! See?”

“But, Rick, there was tha’ chair
ares
“Shut up!” I started taking the
crumpled bills out of my pockets,
straightening them out and tally-
ing the take.

Punchy’s eyes lighted up as he
watched me. He was a short
weasel-like guy with pocky dark
skin and thick curly black hair. He

MANHUNT

came from the Islands seven years
ago with his folks. That time there
was only four of them. After they
moved the old man must’ve got in-
spiration or something. Punchy fig-
ured he was seventeen maybe.
Same as me. But not in the head.

“Hey, Rick!” he kept saying over
and over, watching me count.
“Hey, Rick! Tha’s something .. .”

“Shut up! ... two-ninety ... five
aes three twenty. thirty...”

“What the loot, Rick?”

There was three-hundred-and
forty-two bucks even. I folded the
bills into one big wad and stuffed
it deep in my pocket. “Enough,” I
said,

“Jeez, Rick, we got enough to
ride in fancy train, maybe, huh?
We gon get lost in style, huh?”

“We don’t travel on no trains,
jerk.”

“You wan me to get car?”

“Later.”

Punchy’s face screwed up in a
disappointed frown. “Rick, we gon
cut out like you say, ain’t we? Me
and you gon leave this lousy town
mo
“We got something to do first.”

“Jeez, we better not kill no time,
Rick. I see what you done to that
old man in the store. Them cops
is gon...”

“That jerk seen our faces and
knew who we were. But he ain’t
going to see nothing no more.”

“Sure, Rick, but we better . . .”

“I told you we got something to
do first, jerk!”

GIVE ME A BREAK

Punchy spread his palms and
gave me that dumb look. “What,
Rick? What we gotta do first?”

“Manny,” I told him. “We got to
take care of Manny.”

“Manny?” The moron really
couldn’t figure it. “Manny .. .?”

“You were talking to him today,
weren’t you?” I said tightly.

“Yeah, Rick, but .. .”

“What'd you tell him?”

“Me? ... tell him, Rick ...?”

“You told him about our set-up,
didn’t you?”

“Jeez, Rick, he ask me what I
look so happy about, an...”

“And you told him.”

“Well, I only tell him me an you
gon cut out for good, tha’s all.”

“That’s all, huh?”

“Well... well, he ask what we
gon use for dough, and... .”

“Oh, you dumb, stupid, jerk!”

“I... I don see what was so
wrong, Rick. I...”

“You don’t, huh?”

His jaw hung open and he kept
staring at me with that stupid ex-
pression again. It took a long time
for his jaw to come up to where
he could use it to talk with. “Jeez
... holy Jeez, Rick, you... you
don mean Manny went an... .?”

“How else did the cops get there
so quick, jerk? The old man was
just starting to close up. He didn’t
set the alarm.”

He nodded slowly, like it was
starting to sink into that thick skull
of his; “Yeah... yeah cabo csak

din hear no alarm.”

25

“No, we didn’t hear it, but the
cops did. Manny was the alarm.”

He stuck his hands in his pock-
et and swallowed, and his eyes
dropped to my feet. “Manny! ...
Lge diol .. . E sure din think

ERA

“You don’t think ... period.”

He looked up. “But ... but why,

Rick? Why he wan do that to
us.”
“Not us, lunkhead. Me.”
His- eyes narrowed, and he was
` trying to think hard. “’Cause .. .
‘cause you knock over his girl,
Rick?”

She was a dish, all right, that
Lola. Manny’s girl. She didn’t want
no part of me... but I mean no
part. She got it, anyhow. I waited
for her in the hall where she lives
one night. She wasn’t willing, but
that didn’t matter. Who the hell
did she think she was? Park Ave-
nue? But I didn’t really give a
damn for her, you understand. It
was Manny I wanted to show. I
wanted him to know he didn’t have
anything Z couldn’t have, anytime
I wanted. Let him know who the
better man was. Like Punchy
knew.

I nodded to Punchy. “He figured
he’d even it up by calling the cops
on me. But he didn’t even up noth-
ing. Nothing. There’s a whole new
score to settle.”

-Punchy looked scared. “Why ...
why don we just cut out, Rick?
Hell, we got the money an .. .”

“Shut up! I want you to get your

26

kid brother, Angel, to get the word
to Manny. The cops picked me up,
see? But you got away. You got
plenty of loot, but you’re scared.
Plenty scared and you don’t know
what to do.” I looked at him. “You
following me, man?”

His jaw was hanging again, but
he nodded.

“All right. Angel tells Manny
you want to see him down here.
You're willing to cut him in for
half of the loot, if he helps you
duck the cops. You want to cut out.
Clear, out, see?”

He gave me a sidelong glance.
“How ... how much, Rick? How
much loot did I get?”

“Never mind. He don’t have to
know that.” I pulled the wad of
bills out of my pocket and peeled
off a twenty. “Here,” I said. “Tell
Angel to give that to Manny. That
ought to make the bastard good
and hungry.” ~

Punchy took the twenty and
turned it over in his fingers, grin-
ning. “Madre! ... madre diol...”

“Move, jerk! Move!”

“Sure . . . sure, Rick.” Punchy
turned and scooted.

I doused the light and stuck my
hand in my pocket and clenched
the walnut grip of that ‘piece’.”
Man, it felt good. Damn good.
Like you was king of the world.
Nobody argued with you when
you owned a. ‘piece’. Nobody
wanted to get burned. Anybody
who crossed you was a jerk.

Manny was a jerk.

MANHUNT

_ Punchy was back in ten minutes.
Manny was on his way. I told
Punchy what to do and we waited.
We heard the foot steps coming
down to the basement a few min-
utes later. They stopped by the
door in the darkness. It was quiet
for a minute.

“Punchy?” It was Manny.

I nudged Punchy. “That... that
you, Manny?” he said.

“Yeah? .

I yanked the light on and ducked
behind the furnace. Punchy waited
under the light. Manny came back
there and I watched him. Oh, that
lousy sharped-up jerk! Strutting
like he was a big politician or
something. He was wearing his
pants all pressed up, and suede
shoes and a new suede jacket, and
his blonde hair was plastered down
to his head. All dressed up like he
was celebrating because he figured
I got canned.

Manny came over to Punchy, and
he was grinning. “Man, you look
scared,” he said. He got down to
business fast. “How much did you
get?”

“P ... plenty,” Punchy started,
ae wee
Thats when I stepped out be-
hind Manny, the .38 in my fist.
“Hello, pal,” I said.

You never saw anything spin
around so fast. “Wha... ?” he
choked. His eyes damn near pop-
ped out of his head when he saw
me. Such pretty blue eyes, too. Only
they were all full of white flecks.

GIVE ME A BREAK

Se,

“Whe looks scared now, pal?”
I said.

His jaw dropped open and he
looked a little like Punchy. “R...
Rick 655

“Surprised, pal?” Man, was I
grinning!
ok owe Mean, no INO;

“Oh, sure. You’re surprised, pal.
You're real surprised, ain’t you?”

Eok, RICK. 5 a7

“You figured I was. out of circu-
lation, didn’t you, pal?”

“No ua: fo, Rick

“Sure you did, pal. You’re smart

. . oh, the shrewdest, man. You
called the cops, and you figured
you took care of little ole Rick,
didn’t you?”

He swallowed hard and his
Adam’s apple bobbed like it was
going to bust clear out of his throat.
He was a tall, thin, good-looking
guy, but his face was all white
and twitching now, and you could
practically hear them knees knock-
ing. He tried to talk smooth. “Give
. .. give me a break, Rick. I...
I didn’t know what I was doing.
Ea] a

“Shut up, jerk!”

“I... Pll do anything for you,
Rick. You... you want Lola? ...
you want her, Rick? Okay...
okay, she’s yours...1... ll fix
it Up... Sure... Site +. cane
thing, Rick, boy... any...” :

“You can drop dead! Both of
you!”

He stared at the gun as it tight-

27

ened in my hand. “No... no...
no, Rick... you... you wouldn’t
Fa JOU see

“T wouldn’t, huh?”

“Give me a break, Rick , . . please
» + «please... give me a break ...”

“Rot in hell, you jerk!” I
squeezed the trigger and it sounded
like a cannon going off down there.
My arm jerked back and the shock
went clear up to my skull, and
Manny, he got a shock, too. Right
in the belly. The slug spun him
half around and up against the
concrete wall, and he hung there
for a moment clutching his gut. He
screamed and I pumped the trigger
once more, and he bounced into
that wall again, and then he sagged
to the floor like an old sack of
flour, part of him still sticking to
the wall.

Punchy was standing there hold-
ing his hands over his ears, and I
grabbed him by the front of the
jacket and gave him a shove to-
ward the door. “Let’s go!” I yelled.

“Wait, Rick!” He ran back to
Manny, went through his pockets
and came up with the twenty and
four singles, and a set of car keys.
I was so excited for the minute I
hadn’t figured that Manny’s
Chevvy would be outside. I grabbed
the money and the keys out of
Punchy’s hand, and we took off.

Punchy didn’t say nothing until
we were clear up in: Westchester.
He had his eyes glued to the gas
gauge, then. “We gon need gas
pretty soon, Rick.”

28

“We ain’t stopping in no gas sta-
tions just yet,” I told him. I started
cruising slow through them fancy
streets up there, and then I spotted
a convertible. A Buick, real sharp.
The top was down and it was
parked in the shadows of some
trees, and the house was way back
off the road. I pulled up alongside
of it and told Punchy to go get it.
Like I said, he was stupid, but
when it came to cars Punchy was
in the top class. He got it started
in no time, and I signaled for him
to follow me.

I found a good spot to ditch the
Chevvy, and then I hopped into
the Buick with Punchy. While we
were stopped we got the top up
and I took the wheel. I sure wanted
to use the Thruway because you
could really make time, but there
was too big a chance of getting
spotted at the toll booths. I stuck
to the old highways and headed
North, pushing eighty where I
could. I kept my eyes peeled for
slow-down signs and was careful
not to speed through no towns. By
the time we had to stop for gas
I was pooped, so I let Punchy take
the wheel. I got a map at the gas
station and told Punchy what roads
to take. All I wanted was to get lost
for a few days, and the Adiron-
dacks was going to do fine.

After awhile, watching the road
and with that steady smooth drone
of the engine, I just let my eyes
close and pretty soon I dropped off,
and then I didn’t hear nothing. All

MANHUNT

I kept dreaming about was that
dough in my pocket, and how I
was going to get some fancy
clothes and moye in on some town
where I could really make out.
Maybe the West coast. Yeah. Id
heard a lot about California...
PYRO ss LA + a, YEA, othe aie's
that was a town, all right... L.A.
... get rid of the jerk ... dead
weight... Poncho...Punchy...
Punchy Poncho... jerk...

Something hard banged against
my cheek, and I opened my eyes
and saw that my head was smack-
ing up against the window sill. It
was still dark and the car was
bouncing around like there was no
road under it. I blinked my eyes
sleepily and glanced out the win-
dow. There wasn’t any road. Just
a big open field with no houses
around, and I could see dark moun-
tains outlined against the moonlit
sky. I straightened up suddenly
and looked at Punchy behind the
wheel. “What the hell are you do-
ing, jerk?” I yelled.

Punchy stopped the car and
pulled the hand break. It was then
I noticed the car lights weren’t on.
He looked over at me and grinned,
his white teeth flashing in the
moonlight.

“You crazy bum!” I said. “Why
in hell did you get off the road?”

He shrugged, and kept grinning.
“End of the ride, Rick.”

I stared at him. “Huh?”

He shrugged again. “I don need
you no more, Rick. Just like you

GIVE ME A BREAK

don need me.” He spread his right
hand and jabbed it out at me.
“Gimmee the loot, Rick.”

“Give you the ... ? You lousy,
stupid ... I? I jerked my hand up
to my jacket pocket and clutched
for the gun.

I got a handful of leather.

I froze, gaped at him.

“You looking for this, eh, Rick?”
His left hand came over the steer-
ing wheel, the gun muzzle in front
of it. “You sleep like my brother,
Angel. You don feel nothing.”

My throat went dry. “Wha...
what’d you want to do a thing like
that for, Poncho?”

He laughed, a cold, bitter laugh.
“Poncho, eh? Now I am Poncho.
Why you don call me by my right
name, Rick?”

“That ... that’s your right name,
Poncho.” I tried to smile.

“Sure. Sure it was. “Till you start
to call me Punchy.”

“No ... no, not me, Poncho...
it was the other guys. You know
that. Youn <<;

The grin dropped from his face
and a crazy look lighted his eyes.
“No! You, Rick! You gimmee that
name! Punchy, you call me! All the
time you call me jerk!”

“Honest, Pun... Poncho, I...

“Shut up, jerk!” His eyes glared
at me. “How does it sound, jerk?
Eh, jerk? Eh, dumb, stupid, jerk?
Jerk... jerk... jerk .... JERKS

I bit down on my lip. “Yeah...
yeah, sure Poncho...I...Tm

»

a Wee ee

”

29

“I wan the loot, jerk!”

I yanked the wad out of my
pocket and handed it to him, fast,
and right then I was thinking
about Manny, and how he was
shaking all over just before I
blasted him. And I was shaking
like that now, and I felt the tears
coming to my eyes, and I knew
how Manny felt. “I... I was going
to split it with you, Poncho,” I
said weakly,

“You're a liar, jerk!”

“No, Poncho, I... I mean it, pal
svt Sweat

“Why you bawling, jerk? Manny
din bawl.”

I stared at that gun and I begged

for all I was worth. “Please .. .
please, Poncho... gi... give me
a break... huh? ..... please...”

“Si. Like you gave Manny. Tha’s
the best way, eh, jerk?”

“Aw ...aw... please... please
... just give me a break . za just...
just give me one little ; . .”

His eyes squeezed narrow, and
his lips pulled taut, and his finger
tightened over the trigger... and
then all I could. see was the big
black hole of that gun muzzle
reaching out for Me. s.s.s...

The rotten, cold-hearted bum
wasn’t even going to give me a

break!!

30

ains

: Be C salinar

In Los Angeles, Good Humor ice cream man, Henry Hodge, 24, became
iH-humored after an incident with a stranger. The man stopped. Hodge on the
street and asked him what flavors were available. As the ice cream man opened
his freezer, the man poked a knife against Hodge’s back. The stranger fled
with $47 and two gallons of ice cream—assorted flavors.

Costly Caine

Crime not only doesn’t pay for some criminals, it costs them money.

Claude Garette, of Chicago, operator of a downtown shop, was robbed of
$147 by a bandit. As the robber fled down a street, half a dozen onlookers
began chasing him. A sailor seized the bandit’s jacket, and it came off as the
fugitive escaped in a burst of renewed speed. In a pocket was the $147 loot,
plus $37 more.

In Mound City, S. D., a burglar broke into a service station. He fell into
the grease pit, getting plenty of grease on himself. Moreover, the loot wouldn't
cover the cleaning bill. It consisted of 80 cents.

MANHUNT

Say a Prayer

for the Guy

HAT GAME began as it always
began, the drinkers drank what
they always drank. The talkers said
what they always said, “Keep a
seat open for Joe.”
Frank, John, Pete, and I, each
thinking tonight might be the

We always kept a seat open at the poker game for Joe.
But old Joe won't be playing poker with us any more...

BY NELSON ALGREN

night he’d win back all he’d lost
last week to Joe. Yes, and perhaps a
little more.

Joe, poor old Joe, all his joys but
three have been taken away. To
count his money, play stud poker,
then secretly to count it once more

3I

—and the last count always the best
—that there is more there than be-
fore is no secret.

Joe, old Joe, with his wallet fat as
sausage and his money green as
leaves. Who needs sports, cats,
them like that? That call for mixed
drinks and blame God if they’ve
mixed too much? Who needs
heavy spenders, loudmouth holler-
ers, them like that? Drinking is to
make the head heavy, not the
tongue loose. Drinking is for when
nobody shows up to play poker.
You want to make the feet light?
Go dancing. Dance all night.

“Here comes Joe,” Phil, the bar-
tender, told us, and sure enough,
here he came. With his wallet full.

“Joe, you don’t look so good,”
John told him as soon as he sat
down, “you look so peckid.”

“I don’t feel so good,” the old
man told us, “I feel peckid.”

“You feel peckid, take it easy,”
advised Frank.

I put a dime in the juke, all on
Perry Como. I don’t care what
Perry sings, so long as he sings.
The box coughed once and
gave me back my dime. It doesn’t
like Perry. Well, it was my dime.
I put it right back. J like Perry.

This time it didn’t cough. It

picked Elvis Presley singing All

Shook Up. I got nothing against
Elvis. It was just that it was my
dime,

But that Frahk began humming
and shaking along with the song
as if it had been his money.

32

Then the game went as it always
went, the drinkers drank what they
always, drank, the talkers said what
they always said, “Looks like Joe’s
night again.”

Yet, just as Joe reached for the
deck, as the juke cried out J Need
Your Love, everything went
strange.

The juke coughed on a note, and
went on coughing, how it does
when someone leans against it. I
saw Joe’s hands shuffling, but he
shuffled too slow. A red deuce
twisted out of the deck and drop-
ped to the floor like a splash of
blood. Joe fell forward onto the
table, without a gasp, without a
sound,

Up jumped Frank, the first to
realize. “Joe! Wake up!” He seized
Joe’s wrists and began massaging
them. I opened the old man’s col-
lar and his head flopped like a
rooster’s. O, I didn’t like the looks
of things in the least. Now I
wanted the juke to play anything.

“Please wake up,” Frank pleaded.
“Old friend! My one true friend!”

But his one true friend didn’t
hear.

So we lifted Joe, old Joe, onto the
long glass of the shuffleboard, We
lay him down gently under the
lights that say GAME COM-
PLETED. Frank began to massage
his heart.

“I saw something wrong the sec-
ond he sat down,” John boasted. “I

- told him.”

“Now you look a little peckid

MANHUNT

yourself,” I told him. He didn’t like
that.

“You typewriter pounder,” He
told me, “how some day you look,”
and drew back his lips in a grin
almost as bad as Joe’s.

“How you look, too, someday,
old dummy John,” little Pete sud-
denly took my part, and stretched
his mouth back and made a hor-
rible face, so that he looked even
worse than Joe. Then he ducked
under the table to gather the cards.

“Give up,” I told Frank, “if he
comes to now, he’d be an idiot the
rest of his days. When the breath
stops the brain starts to melt, right
that same second.” It was some-
thing Id read somewhere.

“That would be all right,” Pete
said from under the table, “may-
be that way we’d win some of our
money back.”

“He was my one friend, my only
friend,” Frank reminded us, and
went right on massaging. Yet more
in sorrow than in hope of winning
back his friend. He didn’t give up
till the pulmotor squad arrived.
How they found out I still don’t
- know. I think they just stopped in
for a drink on the way home from
some job and found another.

They tossed a coin, and the one
who lost hauled the inhalator over
to the shuffleboard.

“One side, buddy,” he told
Frank, but our Frank stood his
ground, After all, he’s from this
neighborhood.

“Let him try, too, Frank,” I told

SAY A PRAYER FOR THE GUY

him. “We stand for fair play.” Ac-
tually it wasn’t fair play I wanted
to see so much. It was just that it
had been some time now since any-
one raised anyone from the dead
and I wanted to be on hand if it
happened again.

But that Frank, he wouldn’t give
up. He went to the other side of .
the shuffleboard, yet he kept his
hand on the old man’s heart. I fig-
ured he figured that, if the old man
did come around, he’d get at least
half the credit. If he had we would
have given him all of it. After all,
he’s from this neighborhood.

“If youd stop blowing cigar
smoke in his face,” the fireman told
me, “he’d stand a better chance.”

“Where does it say NO SMOK-
ING?” I asked him to show me.
Why should I take stuff off him?

After a time, the fireman took
the head-piece off Joe’s big blue
nose and motioned to his friend at
the bar. It was all over.

It took them a long time to get
through the mob of kids in the
door. It was a Spring night, and
the kids wanted to see, but were
afraid to come all the way in be-
cause it was a tavern.

But they made a path for some
sort of serious little fellow with a
black moustache. “I’m the doctor,”
he told us as if there were only one
in the whole precinct.

Still, he must really have been a
doctor at that, because he had a
gold watch and didn’t in the least
mind showing it off. He listened to

33

Joe’s right wrist, gave it a bit of a
shake, glanced at the watch, gave
the left wrist a shake and looked
at the watch again. He shook his
head. .

It isn’t true what they say about
pennies holding down a dead
man’s eyes, because they didn’t
hold down Joe’s. Maybe he’s got
heavy eyes, I don’t know, but the
pennies kept rolling off. He tried
half a dozen, but they’d slip and
roll down the floor. Every time one
passed the table I saw Pete’s hand
come out—there was one penny
the doctor wouldn’t see again.

“Try a dime,” I told him to see
if he would think that was heavier,
and he did. When he lost that one
I said, “Try a quarter.”

But he wouldn’t go that high.
A cheapskate.

“Give me two nickels,” he told
me, and two was just what I had.
But I didn’t get a dime for them.
“The dime is under the table,” he
told me.

I wouldn’t bend for it. I knew
it was no use.

When he got the old man’s lids
closed under the nickels he wrote
something in a little book, and
left. “The boys will pick him up
shortly,” he told us.

What boys? The boys from the
Royal Barons S.A.C.? They've
buried a couple parties, but not
officially.

“He meant the ambulance boys,’
Phil, the bartender, guessed. “You
can’t die in a public place unless

34

td

you're a pauper. You got to go to
a hospital to make it official.”

“T think he meant the boys from
Racine Street Station,” Pete spoke
up, and that sounded closest.

“Anyhow, say a prayer for the
guy,” Frank asked us, giving up
his work at last. And began one
himself—“Our Father who art in
Heaven”—then the whiskey hit
him and he couldn’t remember the
rest.

“Hallowed be Thy name,” I re-
membered, and that was as far as ]
could go.

“Let’s wait for the priest,” -I told
Frank.

The kids in the doorway stood
aside to let Father Francis through.
He didn’t look our way be we took
off our caps all the same. He went
right to the shuffleboard and did as
fast and neat a job of extreme unc-
tion as if that old man were lying
in bed. Someone brought an army
blanket and covered the poor old
stiff with that.

Father F. didn’t look our way
till he’d made the sign of the cross
and pulled the blanket up. Then he
came to where we waited.

“Oh, Father,” Frank shouted like ©
the priest had come just in time to
save him. “I forgot the Lord’s
Prayer, Father.”

“Remembering it isn’t your
trade,” Father F. told Frank, “that’s

_ mine. Has the family been noti-

fied?”
Nobody had thought of that. But
right away everyone wanted to be

MANHUNT

the first. John wanted to run
straight to Joe’s house, Sam said
he’d phone. But Phil said, since it
happened in his place, it was his job.

Then, it turned out, nobody
knew where the old man lived or
even what his full name was. No-
body had called him anything but
Joe for years. Some said it was
Wroblewski, some said it was Mak-
isch, another said it was Orlov.

“Try looking in his wallet,”
somebody said from under the
table.

Nobody had thought of that,
either.

“Bring it to me, Frank,” Father
F, said.

“He was my one friend, let some-
one else,” Frank declined.

Father F. went over and turned
the blanket down and reached in
and brought back Joe’s wallet.

Joe’s wallet, fat as sausage, full of
money green as leaves. But when
he laid it on the bar it just lay
there, so thin, so flat, so gone, it
looked like it must have had some
sort of little stroke of its own.

When Father F. reached in, all
there was was one thin single, noth-
ing more.

Everybody pushed to see.

“What was he doing when he
went?” Father wanted to know.

“Playing poker, Father,” we told

him.

“Penny ante?”

“Two-dollar limit.”

“Put on Perry Como,” I told one
of the kids, because I didn’t care
how I spent just then.

Perry came on singing Whither
Thou Goest I Shall Go. Oh, he
sang it so easy, he sang it so free.
And while he sang Phil poured a
shot for John and a shot for me. He
poured a shot for Father F. and a
shot for Sam and a shot for Al and
a shot for Frank. Then he poured
a shot for himself and lifted his
glass.

“To Joe, old Joe,” he made a
kind of toast.

“Oh, Frank,” I heard a whisper
from under the table. “How you
massage! So good! How God is
going to punish!”

SA
Hopeless Ment

Bloodhounds have been used in capturing many an escaped prisoner, but
Henry Lott, 32, used them in making his getaway.

While serving 60 days in the county stockade at Bartow, Fla., Lott was asked
to lay a trail for trainer Carl Andrews’ bloodhounds to follow. He was told to
walk for half a mile, then climb a tree and wait for the dogs to find him.

The prisoner laid the trail all right. But instead of climbing a tree, he made
his way to the nearest highway, hitched a ride and headed for parts unknown.

SAY A PRAYER FOR THE GUY

35

“My wife told me what you did,” Colby
informed his partner. Sit down and write
out a suicide note...”

DEADLY
CHARM

A Novelette

BY
STUART
FRIEDMAN

OLBY TUNED the record player

down and went over and sat
on the edge of the sofa where Lucy
lay on her back, listening. Only
a filter of dusk light came through
the draped picture window, but she
drew light to her like a jewel and
her round, pert face was cleanly
defined as he bent to kiss her fore-
head. When he sat up away from
her he was aware of leaving the
delicately scented cloud of warmth
hovering over her body, and the
air seemed chilly, flavorless. She
blinked, waited, her dark, glossy
eyes watching him. He mustn’t
nag; shed told him repeatedly she
felt fine; she wasn’t sad, just
serious. :

“J—uh—just came to tell you I’m oe
going to shower.” ee a
“All right.”

36

He was reluctant to break the
contact of his hip against the curve
of her waist.

“You're not ready to come in and
start dressing for the dinner?”

“There’s time. Will you make it
a little louder again?”

He returned gloomily to the bed-
room. She usually frisked her de-
licious body around in scanties, tan-
talizing him beyond endurance,
just for the pure hell of turning
his logical theory into a shambles.
Colby reasoned that because he was
homely and dull and bound to be
outshone socially by the other
junior partners, he needed a cer-
tain edge of discontent, a crackle of
excess energy. Therefore it would
be unwise to make love, for he
would feel too good afterward, and
look stupidly smug. He had ex-
plained it once and Lucy had said:
“If you’re all done talking you can
start loving me, lover.” Which he
had done. Since then there had
been no discussion, and she simply
went about the business of making
herself irresistible. Colby stood feel-
ing aimless and listened hopefully
for the dance sound of her step.
Maybe she was just teasing.

But there was nothing teasy
about the big, pretty bedroom...
no stray shoes, no disarray on her
dressing table, no clutter on the
chairs. In fact, for a week, the
whole house had been tidy and sub-
dued. He went in and turned on
the shower and kicked off his slip-
pers angrily. Her chaos exasper-

DEADLY CHARM

ated him; but he was secretly proud
of it, it gave him a sort of pleas-
antly wicked feel. Hell, he didn’t
want her changed. He plodded, she
flew. He only resisted her flightier
impulses and emotionalism for her
own protection. When he took her
out he felt like the toad with the
precious jewel on its head; she was
the magic touch to his life. What
hideous irony if instead of Lucy
enlivening him he had ground her
down to his own dismal, orderly
level!

He tested the shower spray with-
out getting in, then dried his hand,
frowning. What kind of a man.
sulked around waiting to be
seduced ?

He shut off the music and knelt
by the sofa. His hand felt coarse,
thick, as he groped and found her
softly graceful little hand.

“Baby ...are you sure you're all
right...?”

“Vin, you promised to stop wor-
rying about me. I’d tell you if any-
thing was wrong, you know that.”

He suddenly yearned for the easy
fluency he scorned in some of his
colleagues. He was masterful at
building solid cases but totally un-
able to present them in court.

“Lucy,” he began huskily, pray-
ing that the depth and sincerity of
his feeling would force the words
out. “I want you to know, Lucy

.. Words, phrases, teemed pro-
fusely in his mind...but his
tongue failed him, as always, as
always ... and this was why he was

37

condemned to drone in the library
and stay shunted into the back-
ground. “‘Lucy...I respect...
adore...love...” he said, feeling
an agony of unworthiness. “You're
everything worth anything...I’m
nothing...”

She freed her hand, pressed her
fingers to his lips. “I don’t like
your forever criticizing yourself
when you're a million times better
than you think.”

Something in her tone...not
anger but impatience ...made him
cringe. How long before his con-
temptible unassertiveness turned a
high-spirited girl’s sympathy to dis-
gust? Maybe it had already hap-
pened. Abruptly, he stood on his
knees and thrust his hands under
her robed thighs and back. She
pushed against him as he started
to lift her on his arms, and he felt
a run of tension through her slim,
exciting body.

“What are you doing? ...No...
Please...”

His pulse quickened with the feel
of her precious softness against the
taut muscles of his arms and chest.
He held her tight and got to his
feet with her, an exultance of male
strength flooding through him like
a drug. She began to writhe and
struggle and cry out in a sharp
little voice.

“You're hurting me... please...’

?

2.

Entering the bedroom there was

38

a bright glaze over his eyes. He
neither knew nor cared if her strug-
gle was genuine, the unaccustomed
feel of it keened him wildly. She
was holding her robe shut at the
throat with one hand and pushing
at him with the other, and she be-
gan to kick violently, exposing her
legs to the knee, and one slipper
flew off.

He lowered her to the bed. She
clutched her robe and rolled fren-
ziedly away from him. Colby
moved with jungle-swift reflexes,
pouncing as on a prey. He seized
the arm nearest him and she gasped
and lay as though felled, unresist-
ing. He started across the bed to-
ward her, releasing his hold on her
arm. Abruptly she rolled herself
clear off the bed, and scrambled to
her feet.

“The light,” she said and started
for the wall switch. He caught a
flying corner of her robe, and felt
it come off. He twisted his head,
trying to glimpse her, but the light
went off. He heard her returning
to the bed, panting a little. “Darl-
ing,” she whispered, seating her-
self. “Darling...”

“Just a second...” He reached
cautiously across and -suddenly
snapped on the bedlamp. Surprised,
she tried to pull the overhang of
the satin spread over her, while
she stared at him.

He looked at her naked body in
silent horror. Her upper arms were
purpled with bruises; one soft
breast was discolored with ugly

MANHUNT

marks as though crushed by the
vicious grip of a hand; there were
heavy slotches on her thighs and
on the gentle round of her hip.

He felt suddenly paralyzed and
so weak he could barely draw
breath. Tenderness and revulsion
gripped him alternately. He looked
at her face without seeing her and
then at the stamp of violence on
her, saying nothing, his jaw
dropped weakly open. He felt a
little dizzy. His face had become
very pale, his mouth chalk dry. He
couldn’t say anything. She lay
totally inert now, staring up at the
ceiling. There was no sound in the
room except the remote sizz of the
forgotten shower. Her eyes welled
and he saw the tears glide down
her temple into the massed dark
ringlets of hair, but she didn’t_lift
her hands. She just lay there,
abused and shamed, crying silently,
hopelessly and he wanted to cry
with her and caress her and whis-
per his love, but there was a cold-
ness in his breast, and he just
waited, watching her.

She said nothing, nothing.

“Well?” he said finally. “Well?”

She didn’t even seem to hear. He
got up, rammed into his robe and
went to the kitchen where he
poured some whisky. He brought it
to her. She shook her head weakly,
but he lifted her, made her drink.
She coughed and pushed at the
glass, then sat up crosslegged on
the bed, her head down.

“It was last Thursday night. You

DEADLY CHARM

were working on that brief. He
came and got in....”

Colby blasted. “And you didn’t
tell me, didn’t report it to the
police. Did you get a good look?
Lucy, Damn it...why did you try
to hide this from me...” His guts
clawed him and he stomped away
from the bed, blindly, came back,
his fists clenched as he stared
grimly down at her crushed figure.

“The publicity ...the scandal...
what it would do to us, to your
career, to have me dragged...
dragged naked through the head-
lines...” She turned an anguished,
pleading face up to him. “I thought
I could bear it... save you from it
. .. honest to God, Vin...” She
caught his hand, tried to draw it
to her face. He yanked away, then
regretted it.

He petted her face, kissed it.
“Sorry, baby. I know what you
meant to do, and I love you for it.
How did he get in?”

“I let him in. It wasn’t a stranger
... Her voice dropped so low he
had to bend near and ask her to
repeat. “It wasn’t—wasn’t a
stranger?”

“Wasn’t a stranger?” he repeated
stupidly.

“No. So of course I let him in.
He’d been drinking, but I didn’t
know how much. He made a pass.
I slapped him.- That made him
worse, and I hit him harder and-
ran for the phone to call you, and
he knocked it away, and I ran to
the door and yelled at him to get

39

out and he got mean... mean...”

“Who?” Colby said. “Who? He
...He...He you say. WHO!”

“Til tell you. I'll tell you,” she
cried desperately. “But first let me
tell you how and what happened,
so you'll believe me, and know that
I did fight, that I didn’t want it to
happen. He tortured and over-
powered me...”

“That’s obvious to me. Why are
you stalling...why have you been
hiding it if there’s nothing guilty
about it? Who?”

“He was scared afterward. He
threatened. He stood over me for
I don’t know how long, driving it
into me what would happen if I
let you know. He’d say it was an
affair.”

“Affair!” Colby said contemptu-
ously. “Bluff. I want Dr. Keech to
look at you so he’ll be prepared to
swear...”

“Wait. Listen to me. I did go to
Dr. Keech, but he said he’d claim
I required abuse from a lover...”

“It wasn’t the doctor who said
that.”

“No, of course. You know who
I mean...”

“That’s just what I don’t know.”

“Well...it was Windy. Windy
Tearle. That’s who it was. I swear
that’s who it was. I swear!”

“I believe you. Why overem-
phasize? Go on. Keep talking,” he
said, turning away. He began to
dress rapidly.

“Tf I let you know and you took
him to court he would hire a psy-

40

chiatrist to explain masochism, and
Windy would swear that’s what I
was. He’d bring friends in to claim
they too had... had made love to
me...or that I’d tried to get them.
Windy said it was common knowl-
edge that men flocked to me at
parties, dinners, the country club
...and for a better reason than my
public charm. Vin, that’s a lie...”

“I know. Go on,” he said tightly,
continued dressing.

“He said any jury would take
one look at me and see a high-
stepper, and one look at you and
see—well, a not high-stepper...
and they’d look at him and snort
at the idea he would have to rape
any woman....”

Colby nodded involuntarily.
Windy was handsome, and the
easy charm and magnetism that
made him an effective trial lawyer
made him damned attractive to
women. Unwillingly Colby remem-
bered Windy and Lucy dancing
together...a very attractive team.
Others had seen it; Colby himself
had realized it.

“His defense would hammer on
that point,” Lucy went on.
“That I was a thrill-seeker...and
he was the thrill, and that I had
pestered him for months on end.
He had resisted because he was
your colleague, a junior partner in
the same firm...he and you
worked closely together on many
cases, and he esteemed you and
considered you friend, and I was,
however desirable, off-limits. Then

MANHUNT

he’d say he just hadn’t been strong
enough...he had been weak,
weak, weak and human. He had
had a rendezvous, then another,
and my shocking passion had be-
gun to scare him and he had
wanted to break, but I had become
venomous, threatening to blow
both my husband’s and his career
sky high, get us kicked out of the
firm. He had lost his head and
slapped me. It had... that slap, in-
flamed me and I had begged him
to hit me harder...Then gradu-
ally I increased my requirements
for pain, and he had been trapped
in all that morbid ugliness, and
scared that he himself might be-
come perverted and begin to enjoy
inflicting pain....”

3.

Colby had seen Windy in Court
often enough. He had an actor’s
flair; he could shift from earnest,
boyish tactics to deep solemnity
with wholly convincing ease. He
could seem as incapable of guile as
an infant. Colby finished dressing
with an air of deadly calm, but
there was a cold sickness in his gut,
and the insidious, unwelcome
thought crept into his mind. He
couldn’t stand it...he had to have
it denied.

“Lucy...” He didn’t look at her.
“If...1 say if there was... were
any truth to it...that a dull low-
key bum like me was too slow, un-
alive for a lovely, vital girl like

DEADLY CHARM

you and the marriage left your
hungers unsatisfied...if, I mean
...and even though you loved me
and pitied me and fought to re-
main loyal, but couldn’t...and if
this wrongness in your life drove
you somehow into wild cravings
...cravings to punish yourself or
to be punished, and consequently
...” He stopped. She was silent. He
turned, half expecting to see that
she had thrown herself face down
to weep. She sat there staring at
him coldly.

“I only meant,” he flustered.
“Don’t look that way, baby.” He
went near and tried to touch her.
She leaned away. “Lucy, I only
wanted to say even if every lie of
his was true Id love you...I’d
help you...get a psychiatrist...
stand by you....”

“If you’re so close to believing
him, imagine it all in a court. I
see I was right in hiding it from
you. He would smear me, make us
so ugly and contemptible, drag me
naked through the headlines so suc-
cessfully we’d have to skulk out of
town...even if he went to jail.
Furthermore, if you'll look in my
vanity case on the closet shelf
you'll see a copy of the little docu-
ment he prepared just in case you
murdered him.”

There were three typewritten
pages. Colby finished reading and
sat looking drained. It was a sort -
of last testament, and it would be
effective in court...maybe even
effective enough to send Colby up

qi

for life. Even if he should be ac-
quitted, Lucy would emerge
- smeared.

Lucy had got up and put on a
slip. “Now you understand that
we can do nothing, and why I con-
cealed it.”

Colby nodded weakly, then
heaved himself to his feet. He went
to the closet, got his overcoat.

She sat on the edge of the bed
and began to put on her nylons.
“The best thing for us both is to
forget it. I can.”

“I can’t,” he said, almost to him-
self.

“You must. It was worse for me,
and if I can, you can. I did my best,
Vin, to protect you from knowing
..»where are you going in your
overcoat?”

"e?

She stood up. “I want to go to
that dinner. I have a new gown
... high at the throat, long-sleeved.
Nobody need know.”

“He’d be there. He knows.”

“This dinner is part of our
normal lives... part of our future.
I need a future, Vin. I need it des-
perately now. Now please change
your clothes. It’s important for us
to be there tonight. You’ve worked
too hard, succeeded too well in that
firm to let anything... ANY-
THING...stop you. We'll go and
Pll face him down. He can’t make
me skulk.”

Colby walked blindly to her
dressing table. The blood was
throbbing so hard in his head that

42

his vision blurred with every beat
of pulse. Abruptly, his hands
spread, gathered jars, bottles. He
hurled them smashing into the
wall. He let out a harsh sound and
swept the table top clean, then
looked at the damage on the floor,
clenching his fists.

His voice was gritty, low. “Work
in the same firm with him? My
God...My GOD...DAMN IT!
<... He thrust his head at her,
glaring and red-faced. “If he can
intimidate us this way, what’s to
stop him from doing it again...
and again...and...”

She winced; clearly she hadn’t
thought of that.

“I’m going for a walk. To think.”

He was quivering when the cold
air hit him. He began to walk at
a furious pace, thinking he might
think of something. Some legal
angle...some way of striking...
but all he could think was kill kill
kill...

He reached a through street,
turned and strode swiftly along be-
side the speeding lanes of traffic.
He came to a filling station, saw a
cab company phone. He went to
the phone, called a cab.

4.

He entered the apartment build-
ing, pressed the buzzer beside the
card of John Windham Tearle,
picked up the lobby phone.

“Hel—lo....” Windy’s voice had
a gay, half-tight lilt.

MANHUNT

“Hi, Windy,” Colby said, sur-
prised at the easy, untroubled sound
he managed. “Listen, you know
that Hastings business...I dug up
a gem for you...a precedent our
esteemed opponents never heard
up.... I'll bring it up, now, if
that’s o. k. It got me all excited.
I’m late getting home to dress for
the dinner, but I can spare a min-
ute more.” i

“Yowre a pal, pally. Come right
up. I dunno what I’d do without
you, Vin, and that’s no crap. Fur-
thermore, I let Mr. Mac know that
I’m just a fancy mouth, and you're
the brains...just in case Vin, you
ever think I want to hog the spot-
light...”

“Ah, forget it, Windy... push
the button....”

He crossed the small, silent lobby,
pressed the button of the self-sery-
ice elevator, feeling a cold calm. A
click of sound from the shutting
foyer door made him start and
snap his head around. He frowned,
realizing he was far, far from calm.
The elevator door opened—he
stepped inside—and closed. He
jabbed at the “6” button, hit it
clumsily at the edge. Yes, he was
very far from calm...right over
at the edge of fear. There was a
heavy pulsing there in his upper
stomach, a crowding of his dia-
phragm...he drew in a long
breath of air. The elevator was
coming to a stop he had a sick
moment of pure objectivity. A
mindless rage had driven him here,

DEADLY CHARM

He’d eased the hell in him with
raw images of himself beating
Windy bloody and insensate, mak-
ing him feel a little of the meaning
of the pain and degradation and
shame he’d subjected Lucy to, mak-
ing him whimper cravenly for
mercy, for the chance to tuck his
tail and leave town.

But in fact Windy was more
athletic; he outweighed and out-
reached him. And a lifetime of easy
successes had armored him with
confidence so powerful that he had
trouble even imagining defeat.
How trite and true that nothing
succeeded like success...no dark
knowledge of many failures lay
leaden in his guts to cripple his
drive.

The elevator door opened. Colby
moved out fast toward Windy’s
door. If he hadn’t moved fast, he
thought, loathing himself, he
wouldn’t have moved at all. Then
he saw Windy open his door and
stand there with that big, winning
smile of his, as confident as the
gods. He owned the earth! What
he wanted he used... whether it
was another man’s brain to do his
drudging for him...or the other
man’s woman. And if a ‘smile
wasn’t enough he took by rape!

Then he saw the big smile shift
subtly; the blue-gray eyes alerted.
Colby knew he had signalled his
own rage, putting Windy on guard,
losing the little advantage of sur-
prise. He’d planned to palsy along
at least until he could get free of

43

his overcoat. Windy, in slacks and
T-shirt, had his arms free. His
first came up and he danced back,
feinting rapidly with his. left as
Colby came into the apartment in
a slugging rush.

The smash of Colby’s first blow
to the body was drained to a thump
because Windy was going away,
but his second hooked solidly into
Windy’s ribs with force enough to
drain the last of the arrogant bas-
tard’s smile off his face. Colby
crowded him, giving and taking
gut blows, then Colby pistoned one
up at his head, but Windy bobbed
and took it in a graze along his
cheek. Then Windy was away, to
the side, and he landed a blow on
Colby’s temple before he could
turn. Colby swung a roundhouse,
and knew at once it was wrong. He
found himself offbalance, and wide
open.

A blow caught him in the jaw,
and another, another, and for a
moment his vision swirled, and he
had to grab and hold on in close
quarters till his head cleared, then
agony burst like fire in his guts as
he felt the knee smash up into his
groin. It came again, harder and
an involuntary dry, puking sound
came out of his throat. He turned,
bent, holding himself, trying to
get a second’s respite, then Windy
was at his back, jerking his over-
coat down, effectively binding his
arms. Then Windy came around
and slammed him full in the face,
with left, right, left, following him

44

around as he tried to turn, follow-
ing him down as he backed and
stumbled over an ottoman and
crashed to the floor.

- Windy’s lips were drawn back
tight against his teeth in an ugly
deadly expression as he leaned
down. He kicked his head, then
struck his face again with his fist.
Colby felt the blood, knew his face
was cut open, and one eyelid was
twitching uncontrollably, and he
could taste the saltiness and slimi-
ness of blood and saliva in his
mouth, and he knew his lip was
open, but he barely felt the pain in
his face under the overwhelming
intensity of the pain in his groin.

He rolled and pawed out toward
Windy’s legs to bring him down.
But there was a slow-motion night-
marishness about his action, a hope-
less celerity to Windy who evaded
him with ease.

Windy moved in at will to strike
and kick viciously wherever he
chose. Colby found all his force
used up in protecting his groin, his
head, stomach. He tried to get up
three, four... he didn’t know how
many times...and each time he
was kicked sprawling, or battered
down or flattened by the smash of
Windy’s body on his back. Then he
was slugged at the base of the skull
and his face mashed to the floor
and his senses bleared, darkened,
and all the fight in him was turned
against losing consciousness. He
got his head up and his forearms
under him and sucked air dizz-

MANHUNT

ingly into his lungs, and prepared
himself for the mighty heave that
would bring him miraculously
storming to his feet...and then
he saw Windy ahead and out of
reach, watching him. Windy
wasn’t angry or alert now. He
looked almost playful, as if, it
wasn’t a fight any longer, just a
victor and a vanquished ...and
that was the worst horror of all.
Colby heard his own enraged roar
come out of his throat sounding
more like a sob as he willed him-
self up...and he was making it!
making it!...he was halfway up
...-but then his leg was yanked
from behind and he was being
flopped helpless onto his back by
a toe-hold. His free leg drove up
at Windy’s head, but Windy was
no longer there. Windy’s heel
crushed down into the muscle of
his bicep, then the barrage of blows
started on his head....

“You had enough?”

yes. 500.,..Never...never...
never... The question came again,
again, eternally, and Colby tried to
remember the reason for this...
Lucy...the thing that had hap-
pened to her...the reason he must
never, never, never, NEVER sub-
mit...but she faded under the
mounting pain, faded and van-
ished, and then there was only the
pain and the craving in him to stop
it at any Gost....

‘He hadn’t spoken, he told him-
self, he hadn’t begged for mercy,
he Aadn’t broken ...but the blows

DEADLY CHARM

had stopped, and he knew he had
said the words to stop them, and
he could feel tears crawl down his ~
face, cutting like fire as they
touched the raw open injuries. He
was sitting and Windy was stand-
ing looking down on him and Col-
by couldn’t raise his head. Then,
Windy was helping him to his feet
and for a sickening instant Colby
was aware of a feeling of gratitude
toward the son of a bitch and he
wished he could die. Then Windy
was standing in front of him, say-
ing with a taunting pretense of
sporty good-fellowship.

“Up and at ’em again, huh, Vin?
Ready for round two! Throw one.”
He cocked his fists, waited and
grinned. :

Colby just stood, dreading the
thought of more pain, unable to
lift his arms...or his head. He
worked up some bloody saliva and
forced himself to lift his head and
stare at Windy. He was beaten, he
told himself, but not intimidated,
and he was still man enough to
spit in his face...and then he
knew he didn’t dare.

“O. K., then, pal. No more
stomach for the sport... Windy
thrust out his hand, clasped Col-
by’s. “So we shake, and no hard
feelings. And I’m always open for
a return match. But, meantime, let’s
get your face cleaned up and have

a smoke and a drink. Now we're ,

calmed down, Vin, fercrissakes,
maybe you can tell me why you
come charging in here at me like a

45

mad bull when I thought we were
friends.”

Before his groggy senses could
absorb what hed said Windy
moved away and returned with a
double shot of whisky in a water
glass.

“This is what you need, Vin,”
Windy said with an air of concern.

It hurt his cut mouth but Colby
drank it off, and after a few sec-
onds it began to help. Windy was
offering him a lighted cigarette and
saying:

5.

“Pal, youre about the toughest
customer I ever tangled with...”

Colby knew he was being patron-
ized, but it felt better to accept it
as a compliment.

“The only hell of it is, Vin,
you're a little rusty, and I’ve kept
half-way in training ever since I
used to box for Alma Mammy.
Look, I want you to see Casey
down at the City Club...you
know the athletic director, and take
some private boxing lessons. The
main thing he'll help you with is
to stay cool... never go into a fight
mad, Vin...and by the way, what
the hell was it that got you riled at
me? Hell, I thought you and me
hit it off.”

Colby just stared. This son-of-a-
gun was positively incredible. Not
only was he carefully diminishing
the sense of Colby’s humiliation, he
was giving an entirely plausible
picture of innocence.

46

“Lucy. She’s why...and you
know it damned well!”

Windy’s eyes widened. “Lucy?
What did I ever do to make her
sic you on me....” He paused, nar-
rowed his eyes. “Vin, you don’t
mean you think I—I made a pass...
at Lucy? At your wife...at the
wife of my closest colleague and
friend. No, you can’t mean that.”

Colby stared at him, feeling some
of his certainty ebb.

“I do mean it. You raped her....”
The simple word drove him like
a fool and he smashed out at
Windy’s arrogant face. He missed,
stumbled...and Windy’s hands
helped him regain balance.

“Please, Vin...don’t hate me,
don’t be my enemy. This is a dread-
ful misunderstanding, if she thinks
that...Lucy’s a wonderful girl,
Vin, we all know that, but so ro-
mantic, and dramatic...and, don’t
get sore again...and foolish. She
goes farther than she realizes some-
times...I poked a guy’s mouth
shut for him not two weeks ago,
Vin, because she claimed .. . Well,
it was a lie... that girl adores you,
and she’d never let you down....”

“She’s bruised, hurt...she was
raped....”

“Were not going to be enemies,
Vin. A woman is not going to
come between us.” Windy clenched
his fist. “I say she’s lying to you if
she accuses me.” This fist, he was
saying, says that she is the liar. “I
want to be your friend, not your
enemy, Vin.”

MANHUNT

And I, Colby told himself, prefer
to believe him. Because he is
stronger. Colby turned brokenly
and walked into Windy’s bedroom,
thinking that he had found the
way out. He had only to obey
Windy and he wouldn’t get hurt
any more. If he didn’t quite fully
believe him now, he would con-
vince himself in time. If Lucy had
lied and betrayed him he could
forgive her, and he would, in ad-
dition to winning Windy’s good-
will, managed also to keep his prec-
ious jewel. He wandered as though
dazed, purposeless. Windy watched
from a distance, his eyes wary.
When Colby neared the bureau
Windy moved swiftly. toward him,
and Colby knew he was right.
Windy still kept his gun in that
top bureau drawer.

Windy came flying and his hand
dove into the opening drawer with
Colby’s.

Colby got the gun. He rammed
it into Windy’s gut and turned his
bloodied face to Windy.

“You're done!” he said. “You're
done!”

“Wait...use your head, Vin

“I know. If I kill you there’s a
dead man’s statement waiting to
smear Lucy and convict me. I read
it. But I don’t give a damn, a damn,
not now....”

“Please. Think! You can’t, you
can’t shoot me down in cold blood
... Vin, I had you beat; I could
have come and got this gun and

DEADLY CHARM

murdered you. You can’t murder
either. Think! [Ill resign... leave
town... Vin, are you hearing me?”

“You raped her. You smeared
her. You called her a liar. You
wanted to cow me into hating her,
into living like a whipped cur...
I'd rather die... but not before you
do...Ask your God for mercy,
not me!”

“I was drunk! I didn’t mean to,
didn’t want to...so help me God
I'd give my arm to wipe it out...
Give me a chance to go, to run, run’
like the whipped cur, out of town
... give me a chance... That paper
I wrote. I'll give you the original.
Let me get it. We’ll burn it. As a
sign of my intentions, the truth of
thêm ccc

He wavered. “Don’t stall....”

“It frees you to kill me. It puts
me helpless at your mercy. It shows
what I think of your integrity, your
honor. Vin, for God’s sake... .”

“Where 16 ih...

“Lockbox. Closet shelf.”

“Get it down. Move very care-
fully, Windy.”
= "Yes, yes....m no fools.

Minutes later the lockbox was
down and open. Colby scanned
the statement after Windy took it
from its sealed envelope. It was the
one Lucy had a copy of. Colby
stared silently into Windy’s eyes,
and asked:

“No other copies.”

“None.”

They went to the bathroom,
wadded each sheet of paper and set

47

it afire. Watching the fire and the
shaky anxiety on Windy’s face Col-
by began to chill at the thought of
killing in cold blood. Windy’s stall
for time had worked. Something
of his rage and hate had weakened
under the look of Windy’s terror.
It was not impossible to believe he
did feel remorse ...Gah! He began
to despise himself for weakness.
Windy was being either very clever
or intensely sincere at the moment
... too wise to say a word. He was
letting Colby work it out in his
own mind, letting him too realize
the awesomeness of death.

“We'll go into the phone. Dial
my number. Then let me talk to
Lucy.”

Windy nodded gravely, moved
to comply. When Lucy answered
Colby continued to cover Windy
with the gun. “Sweetheart? I’m at
Windy’s. Dress and come here as
fast as you can, and bring my gun
...don’t ARGUE with me... I’ve
got his gun and I'll kill him this
instant if you... Windy, you tell
her!” He pushed the handset at
him.

“He means it! He’s got me
. covered. Do as he says.”

Colby replaced the
pointed to the small desk.

“Sit down. Get paper and pen.
We're both going to write suicide
notes. Then were going to Tarle-
ton Park. A gun for each of us. I
don’t want you on my conscience
the rest of my life. I haven’t the
guts to just blow your brains out.

48

handset,

You'll have an equal chance to
blow mine out.”

“A duel? You mean a duel?”

“Something like that?”

He saw the flicker of hope...
and slyness...in Windy’s expres-
sion. “I knew you were a gentle-
man, Vin. This is the gentleman’s
way. I know just the place, se-
cluded. We stand back to back,
walk ten paces, turn and fire.”

Colby nodded. “The only thing
lacking will be seconds. We’ll be
alone. Not even Lucy will be
there.”

Windy sat at the desk and wrote
the suicide note. Colby read- it,
nodded.

“Now you stand there, back to
me, your hands up on the wall,
while I write my note. Remember,
I’ve still got the only gun.”

“Of course.”

Windy could scarcely conceal the
lifting of his spirits. No fear of
death in him now, Colby noted.
Windy imagined that Colby was
going to be the proper gentleman
and march ten paces with his back
turned, and Windy was counting
on that turned back. If he hadn’t
counted on it he would never have
written the suicide note.

Colby finished his own note, let
Windy read it. Then they sat across
from each other, waiting for Lucy.

When she arrived he got rid of
her as quickly as possibly.

Forty minutes later he and
Windy got out of Windy’s car, and
headed on foot to the isolated little

MANHUNT

green. Reaching it Colby emptied
each gun of all but one cartridge.

“What're you doing?”

“There'll be a slight change in
procedure. I wouldn’t want you to
worry, Windy, that when you
walked ten paces with your back
turned I might turn and shoot you
in the back.”

“You're a cute son-of-a-gun,
aren't you?” Windy raged.

“Very. Now, you take my gun,
Pll take yours. Pll put your gun
to your temple, you'll put my gun
to mine. Then we'll pull triggers
...until one of the bullets comes
under one of the hammers.”

Colby spun the chambers several
times on each gun. He solemnly
handed Windy his gun. Windy
seized it and began to pull the
trigger wildly as fast as he could,

before Colby got the gun in his
own hand up to Windy’s head.
Windy ducked away from the feel
of the muzzle the instant Colby
placed the gun at his temple, and
he struck out, trying to throw Col-

' by off balance. There was an ex-

plosion that almost deafened him
...Windy’s one bullet had gone
wild. Windy yelled and fell,
scrambling to get away, and Colby,
with infinite patience, followed him
down, holding the gun near his head,
and pulling the trigger one, two,
three, four... the revolver tugged at
his arm as the bullet fired....

He crouched after awhile to
make certain Windy was dead.
Then he wiped Windy’s gun,
tossed it down, pried his own gun
free of Windy’s death grip and
walked away. x

=D

Bur ie Bin e
glary (Ding

In Ventura, Calif. John Ashburn opened his liquor store and discovered that
there had been an intruder during the night. Bottles on the shelves were in
disarray. In the center of the floor was a broken bottle of champagne.

Ashburn searched the store and found a possum asleep on a shelf. “He was
dead to the world,” Ashburn said. “I had to carry him out of the place and
give him a shove toward the foothills. And he was staggering as he started out.”

P. assout :

Carl Henn held up a theater cashier in Toronto, Ont., and fled down the
street, holding $100 in one hand and a gun in the other. Two bystanders gave
chase and captured Henn four blocks away. Henn fainted.

DEADLY CHARM

49

Spc NONSENSE,” Miles
Ramey’s Uncle David said
irritably. He still knelt there in the
grass where he’d been pruning the
rose bush. The pruning shears were
in his right hand. And on the ball
of the thumb of his left hand,
where a thorn had pricked him,
was a tiny bubble of fresh blood.

But his irritation wasn’t directed
at the slight wound. At his nephew
rather. Miles Ramey had been
standing watching his uncle and
dutifully listening to his discussion
of horticulture. But now Miles’ face
had gone suddenly a- greenish
white, a clammy sweat sprang to
his forehead, and he clung to the

F Ea spat,

He had a phobia about blood — fainted at the sight of it. So how
could anyone suspect him of the bloody murder of his uncle?

The Sight of Blood

50

rose trellis for support. He rolled
his eyes and glanced away. He
looked as if he were sick.

“What's the matter with you?”
Uncle David insisted upon know-
ing, although he knew quite well.

“Would you excuse me a min-
ute?” Miles pleaded and tried to
walk away.

But there was a devil in the old
man that day. He had a grouch on,
which was not unusual for him.
But he was peskier today than even
he had a habit of being. He strug-
gled up from his knees, dropping
the shears, and grabbed Miles’ arm
before the latter could escape.

“Don’t like the sight of blood, is
that it?” Uncle David could be al-
most gleeful about other people’s
infirmities.

“You know I don’t,” Miles said,
grimacing. “Let me go please.”

But the old man hung on. “Lot
of damned nonsense,” was the
judgment he rendered again.
“You better cure yourself of that,
sonny. Nobody minded when you
were little, but it’s damned foolish-
ness in a grown man. What you
need is a shock, like seeing a lot of
blood at one time. Too bad you
never got in a war. Or seen a nice
juicy highway accident. Bet some-
thing like that would cure you once
and for all.”

Miles’ head felt dizzily empty ex-
cept for the’ great gory visions his
uncle had put there. He was
weaker than Uncle David now, too
weak to pull away and run.

THE SITE OF BLOOD

“Too bad,” the old man said,

“that we haven’t got a war or an
accident handy. But we'll try
Cisse)

He dropped Miles’ arm and
thrust his wounded thumb into

~

Miles’ face. Somehow Miles |

couldn’t close his eyes. He had to

look. The gnarled old brown -

thumb with its glistening red bead
ornament, like one tiny sphere
balanced precariously on a larger
one, was just inches from him and
filled his vision. Then as he
watched in horror, Uncle David
reached up with his other hand
and squeezed that thumb. The
blood welled, burst from its tiny
spherical shape, and trickled down
the skin.

To Miles it seemed like a vast,
rushing, drowning torrent. He
screamed.

And screaming seemed to sum-
mon strength back into his body.
He wrestled out of Uncle David’s
grip and ran. Like a man running
away from death, and with the
devil behind him. He ran the

length of the path, and around to -

the front of the house. But he didn’t
stop there. He ran down the slope,
through bushes and over grass, past
the low scrub trees that whipped
their branches in his face. He ran
out onto the dock to the far end.
There, alone and gasping for
breath, he threw himself down on
the boards, put his head over the
edge, and surrendered to his
nausea.

51

Then he lay for a long time rest-
ing, listening to the lake water lap-
ping against the piles, letting the
fresh air seep into his throat like
balm. Slowly the ugly thing seemed
to wash out of him, out of his in-
sides and out of his mind. But he
still trembled from the memory,
like a frozen man who cannot stop
shivering even in front of a fire.

I hate him, he thought.

And his other thoughts were
tumbled and incoherent for a
while. Till finally, in a sudden
burst of light within his brain, they
all arranged themselves. He had
long wanted what part of Uncle
David’s estate he would inherit.
And he had hated the old man for
just as long. Today wasn’t the first
time the old man had been impos-
sibly overbearing, insensibly cruel.
Today was somehow only the
worst.

But he knew now that he wanted
to kill him. And he knew exactly
how he would do it.

Miles Ramey went to work on
his secret project slowly and
methodically. There was an im-
pression to be reinforced in the
popular mind. Everybody in Mino-
chee knew, of course, about Miles’
tender feelings and his utter in-
ability to cope with a display of
gore or even to discuss gory sub-
jects. But now it became important
that their memories be refreshed
about the existence of this fact. So
that they could call it to mind at

52

the proper time. And bear wit-
Hess.

In this project luck favored him
with several opportunities. And he
didn’t have to act or pretend.

First there was the lecture on
civil defense and first-aid at the
town hall. If he had had anything
less than murder in mind, Miles ~
would never have attended. But
now he professed concern and pa-
triotism. He had to leave in the
middle of the lecture, white-faced,
down the center aisle for everyone
to see. Then he was sick on the
town hall steps.

A few days later Mr. Cromwell
the painter fell off his scaffolding
and broke an arm. Miles had never
run morbidly to accident scenes,
but he ran to this one. Friendly
hands had to escort him to a shady
spot under a tree and make him
lie prone to keep him conscious.

And finally came the best chance
of all. An outbreak of typhoid
made it necessary for the whole
town of Minochee to be innocu-
lated against the fever. Miles Ra-
mey stood in line with the others,
but he fainted before his own turn
came. The incident was noted and
commented upon by quite a few
people.

So it was time to begin.

Miles would need the proper
alibi, of course. But he had pro-
vided for that. He lived with his
sister Stella and her husband Rob-
ert. Relatives would be prejudiced
in one’s favor naturally. But that

MANHUNT

was all right. An airtight, unshak-
able alibi might look too planned.

Miles chose a night when Robert
and Stella were staying home. He
ate dinner with them in quite nor-
mal fashion, watched a television
program with them, even listened
to Robert discuss his favorite topic,
trout fishing, for a while. But about
nine-thirty he said he was tired,
retreated to his second-floor bed-
room, and locked the door. He al-
ways did that.

Once alone, he didn’t hesitate,
for he’d made up his mind long
ago. He undressed, but not for
pajamas and bed. He put on his
swimming trunks. Then he
brought out of the closet the neces-
sary items he had accumulated for
tonight’s work—his tools, he called
them. :

There was the old pair of sneak-
ers, three sizes too large for him.
He’d found them on a trash heap,
because he hadn’t dared to arouse
curiosity by going into a store and
buying shoes so obviously unsuited
for wearing. Then there were the
three articles that he had purchased
in stores, but each at a different
store, and none in Minochee. A
pair of cotton work gloves, a metal
cash box with a key, and a bottle
of smelling salts.

He put the bottle, the shoes, and
the gloves all inside the metal box
for convenience jn carrying. Then
he turned out the lights, opened the
window quietly, and climbed out
on the roof. The roof sloped to a

THE SITE OF BLOOD

low point over the attached garage.
The cash box landed on the ground
with a soft thud. Miles followed.
It was a jarring fall, but he man-
aged it without injury.

He gathered up the box and
picked his way in the moonless
darkness toward the lake. The row-
boat, he knew, would be tied up
at Robert’s dock, and Robert
wouldn’t be using it or come look-
ing for it at this time of night, so
it would never be missed. Miles
entered the boat slowly and stealth-
ily, untied it, and pushed silently
away from the dock.

Uncle David’s cottage where he
lived completely alone was around
the little point, half a mile by
water, a bit more than half that
distance by land. Miles had never
in his life rowed over to see Uncle
David. Neither, then, would any-
body ever expect him to row over
to murder Uncle David. That fact
was but one advantage of Miles’
plan. But the rowboat was neces-
sary besides. A lot of extra cloth-
ing would be a handicap on this
expedition. The swimming trunks
would be sufficient attire in a row-
boat, but hardly if he met anyone
on the footpath or the road, And
as a matter of fact, he didn’t want
to meet anyone.

He was content to proceed
slowly, so as not to make any noise
with the oars. He was sure no one
noticed his passage. Lights were
burning in cottages all along the
shoreline, but the occupants were

53

staying indoors. From somewhere
far off in the night, an outboard
motor buzzed, down the lake. No
other boats were in the immediate
vicinity, for the night was really
too cool for pleasant boating.

A light in Uncle David’s kitchen
finally shone out as a beacon for
Miles. His boat glided silently into
Uncle David’s dock, and he tied it
there. Then he divested himself of
the swimming trunks, and put on
the sneakers and gloves. He left the
trunks and the metal box in the
bottom of the boat, but he took
the smelling salts with him as he
climbed out.

He approached the house cau-
tiously but not timidly. On the way
he made a point of leaving the
footprints of his oversized shoes in
several places where there was soft
earth, such as among Uncle Da-
vid’s freshly cultivated roses. He
also stopped at the little tool shed
where Uncle David kept an axe
for cutting firewood. He took the
axe.

He paused outside the kitchen
window to locate Uncle David. He
saw the old man, alone as always,
sitting at the kitchen table. He
had something that looked like
garden catalogues spread out on
the table in front of him, and he
was quite engrossed in them. He
wasn’t aware of any other presence
until Miles burst through the un-
locked door.

Then he jumped up at the noise,
only surprised at first. But the sur-

HA

prise quickly changed to awe and
wonder, and finally to the cantan-
kerous anger so habitual with him.

“What in thunder are you do-
ing?” he wanted to know.

Certainly he had a right to ask
the question at least. His nephew
presented a strange spectacle in-
deed, naked except for the white
gloves and the old, obviously huge
sneakers, and with an axe in his.
hand.

But Uncle David didn’t wait for
an answer. “I knew you were crazy
all the time,” he stormed. “What
do you think you’re doing in that
get-up? Don’t you wear clothes any
more?”

He didn’t seem to be aware at
all of the lethal intentions of his
visitor. Perhaps he considered the
axe to be only a part of the cos-
tume, or the lack of costume. And
he certainly seemed to have mis-
read the gleam in his nephew’s
eyes.

“Now you get home,” Uncle Da-
vid railed on, “before I call Stella
or the police.” He was thinking of
calling the police, of course, on a
matter of indecent exposure, not
of murder.

Miles didn’t pause to argue or
explain. He advanced three steps,
which was the distance separating
them. Uncle David still didn’t
seem to understand, because he
still wasn’t afraid. Which made
everything much simpler. Miles
lifted the axe, aimed it at Uncle
David's head, and swung. The tar-

MANHUNT

get remained immobile, and that
even allowed Miles to close his eyes
at the last moment. He only heard
the impact therefore, without see-
ing it.

But the sound, like the sounds
one can hear in a butcher shop, was
enough for Miles’ imagination. His
mind instantly conjured pictures
worse than any reality. A river of
blood seemed to gush at him, suf-
focating, drowning him. The floor
under his feet began to gyrate
crazily. The thought of fainting
here, in Uncle David’s gore, spur-
red his hand working at the top of
the smelling salts bottle. And then,
just in time, the strong ammonia
scent rushed into his nostrils.

His head was light and empty,
his stomach churning, but he was
still conscious. He kept his eyes
closed a bit longer, and took fur-
ther sniffs from the bottle, till the
odor was painful inside his nostrils.
And he listened for further sounds.
There were none.

Only then, after perhaps a full
minute of silence, did he dare to
look. He had to look. There was
still work to be done.

Uncle David was in a crumpled
heap on the floor. His head was
unrecognizable. There was blood
on everything, the corpse, the fur-
niture, the axe, Miles himself. Who
would have thought the old man
to have had so much blood in him?
Miles had to seek the comfort of
the ammonia again.

But he went to work doggedly.

THE SITE OF BLOOD

He could afford only. one hand for
the axe. The other kept the smell-
ing salts under his nose. He knelt

on the wet floor. Actually, he

found, he could wield the axe with-
out looking at what he was doing.
It didn’t matter where ‘he cut. I
forgot one thing, he thought, I
should have brought cotton to stop
my ears.

He didn’t count how many times
he lifted the axe and let it fall
again. Perhaps he couldn’t. Perhaps
his brain wasn’t capable of arithme-
tic at the moment. He continued
on instinct, letting old hatreds be
his dynamo. Lift the axe ... let it
fall . . . crunch like a cleaver...
stuck fast ... wrench it out again
se e st. fall 2 T Gin te ee
. .. I ate too much for dinner
though ... lift... fall... but if I
hadn’t eaten Stella would have
been suspicious ... lift... fall...
this is enough ... he was dead a
long time ago... lift... fall...
but the maniac whom I’m imper-
sonating would go on and on...
ifeto

His arm tired finally and he had
to stop. He staggered to his feet,
lost his balance once on the slip-
pery floor, made it on the second
try. He left the axe where it lay.
He still had the bottle. It had
stayed clamped to his nose. But the
cap had rolled away. He searched
for it wildly,’ found it under the
table. He saw that he had left red
marks on whatever he touched.

I’ve got everything I came with,

55|

he told himself. But he double-
checked. The axe was Uncle Da-
vid’s, leave it. The bottle. Both
gloves, red and wet. Both shoes,
the same. All right. He lurched out
the way he had come.

The fresh night air was the most
wonderful thing he had ever
- smelled. It kept him alive and ra-
tional. He stumbled _half-blindly
down toward the dock. I’m getting
blood on the grass, and every bush
and tree branch, he thought. But
that’s all right. Leave bloody foot-
prints too, footprints bigger than
my own.

When he reached the water, he
had sense enough not to touch the
boat. No blood on Robert’s boat, he
remembered. But he- walked
straight into the water himself. It
was colder than the air. It shocked
him. A needed shock. His brain
cleared a little more.

And it was fortunate that he
could think a bit. Because it was
important that he be thorough
now. No blood on Roberts boat
and no blood on himself. This was
another reason why the lake had
to be part of his scheme. The lake
would wash him clean.

He ducked his head beneath the
surface and swam out a few
strokes. He could almost feel the
filthy red stuff flowing off his body.
He came up, gasping for air, and
swam some more. Then he circled
back to the boat. There, treading
water, he scrubbed at the bottle till
he knew it was clean. Then he

56

tossed it into the metal box. Sec-
only the gloves. He kneaded them
like a washerwoman, wrung them
out, kneaded and wrung them
again. They went into the box too.
Finally the shoes, much rinsing,
and into the box.

He gave himself another last in-
spection. He went underwater
again, and brushed his hair. He felt
all over his face and body, could
detect no foreign substance any-
where. Then, with a tremendous,
killing effort, he hoisted himself
into the boat.

He sat there, naked and shiver-
ing, for several minutes before he
could even lift the oars. But eventu-
ally, because he had to, even with-
out the strength, he untied the boat
and began to row.

He went to a place where he
knew the water was deepest. He
locked the box then with its con-
tents inside, and gave both the box
and its key to the friendly lake. It
made him feel good, hearing that
box sink with tiny gurglings. He
started home.

He had to stop to rest often and
let the boat drift. He had lost all
notion of time. His muscles ached,
but he wasn’t nauseated any more.
He didn’t need smelling salts. All
he needed was rest. Tomorrow
morning he would feel very good.
The thought of rest kept him row-
ing.

When he got to Robert’s dock,
he tied up the boat. His body was
dry now, so he could put on the

MANHUNT

swimming trunks. He climbed up
on the dock and walked carefully
to the house. A look through the
window showed him Robert and
Stella playing gin rummy together.
They wouldn’t have been doing
that if he had been missed.

Climbing the low roof of the
garage was possible with a small
running leap, but it required the
last ounce of the strength in his
arms to lift himself up from a fin-
gerhold. He crawled to his win-
dow, and through it into his own
room.

There he pulled the blinds and
turned on the lights softly. Then
he inspected every inch of his own
body and found no telltale signs of
blood. He congratulated himself.
Everything had gone precisely,
exactly, according to plan.

He turned out the lights and

slept soundly.
” Scotty Harris was pretty new in
the job of sheriffs first. deputy,
having just come to Minochee less
than a year ago after being a big-
city detective most of his life. So
he didn’t know too much of the
background of Miles Ramey’s spe-
cial weakness. But there were
plenty of people to tell him about
it.

“Miles certainly could never have
killed his Uncle David,” Aunt
Marian for one: said. “He’s too
chicken-hearted. Can’t stand the
sight of blood.”

“I wasn’t suggesting that he

THE SITE OF BLOOD

committed the murder,” Harris
said defensively.

“Then why are you asking him
where he was at that certain time?”

Harris was professionally polite
and patient. “It’s my job, ma’m, to
ask questions, especially to` those
people who might benefit by David
Ramey’s death. And anyway, it
doesn’t look as if Miles Ramey has
anything to worry about anyway.
His whereabouts last night seem to
be pretty well established. He was
home all evening.”

“Certainly he was home.”

“Yes, ma'm.”

“But even if he wasn’t, he
couldn’t have done it. Why, I saw
all the blood in that kitchen. Miles
would have fainted and never
come to if he’d ever seen that much
blood. Why, I remember when
Miles was a little boy and Pd be
killing a chicken...”

“Ma’m,” the deputy interrupted,
“I think you’ve made your point.”

“A maniac must have killed old
Dave.”

“Very likely.”

Harris turned his back on Aunt
Marian and looked around at the
rest of them. They were all here
in David Ramey’s parlor, all of
David's local relatives and a couple
of his very few friends. Stella and
Robert, Miles himself, Aunt Mari-
an, and Cousin Edward. Then
there were Sam Ballas and Thad
Denton.

“Well,” Harris said, addressing
all of them at once, “it looks like

57

we'll have to accept the maniac
theory for the moment at least.”

Miles sat rather alone in a corner.
He hadn’t been in the least afraid,
but he found additional comfort in
the deputy’s verdict. Harris was
just coming to a conclusion about
something everybody else had
known all along. If Miles Ramey
was to murder anybody, an axe
would be the last thing in the
world he’d choose to do it with.
Harris was obviously pretty smart,
but not even Harris could get
around a known fact.

“Can we go then, Mr. Harris?”
Sam Ballas asked.

“T guess so,” Harris said, sound-
ing like a defeated man.

Everybody started to get up to
leave when Harris cleared his
throat and stopped them. “Just one
more thing,” he said.

Everybody waited while he went
out into the kitchen. When he
came back he was carrying the
murder axe. But it didn’t look like
it had when Miles had last seen it.
It had been pretty well cleaned up
and was shining again.

“This is what killed David
Ramey,” Harris said matter-of-
factly. “Weve already examined it
for prints, of course. Nothing there.
But Id like to be sure of just one
thing. Can anybody say for sure
whether this axe belonged to
David Ramey?” .

Sam Ballas and Thad Denton
gave positive identification.

Harris looked even more glum.

“58

“That’s too bad,” he said. “If the
murderer had brought it with him,
it might have been a clue.”

They waited, but he didn’t dis-
miss them. He ran his fingers medi-
tatively along the business edge of
the axe. “Still plenty sharp,” he
commented softly. Then his hand
seemed to jump, as if something
had bitten him.

‘Harris moved swiftly then, too
swiftly for Miles to predict his in-
tentions. Then there it was, Harris’
right hand in front of Miles’ face,
and a finger cut by the axe. The
sight of blood.

“That shows you how sharp it
is,” Harris said.

Miles waited.confidently for the
usual reaction, a sickness in his
stomach, a whirling emptiness in
his head. But nothing happened,
absolutely nothing. He stared at
the cut finger, at the red liquid ooz-
ing gently from the slice in the
flesh, stared hard. He wanted to
become ill . .. and he couldn't.

And he found himself remem-
bering that conversation with
Uncle David—was it irrelevantly ?
Uncle David had been so sure of
how to cure his nephew...” ... a
lot of blood ... like a war ... or
a nice juicy highway accident...
“There'd been another possibility.
A nice juicy murder.

The detective was looking at
him, calmly, but with new interest.
“Mr. Ramey,” he said, “they tell
me you get sick at the sight of
blood.”

MANHUNT

A FIRE AT NIGHT

BY
LAWRENCE BLOCK

It was a nice fire, the best he'd ever set. And to make things
better, there was a woman trapped in the burning house...

E GAZED silently into the flame.

The old tenement was burn-
ing, and the smoke was rising up-
ward to merge. against the black-
ness of the sky. There were neither
stars nor moon in the sky, and the
street lights in the neighborhood

were dim and spaced far apart.
Nothing detracted from the bril-
liance of the fire. It stood out
against the night like a diamond in
a pot of bubbling tar. It was a
beautiful fire.

He looked around and smiled.

59

The crowd was growing larger, as
everyone in the area thronged to-
gether to watch the building burn.
They like it, he thought. Everyone
likes a fire. They receive pleasure
from staring into the flames, watch-
ing them dance on the tenement
roof. But their pleasure could never
match his, for it was his fire. It
was the most beautiful fire he had
ever set.

His mind filled with the memory
of it. It had been planned to per-
fection. When the sun dropped be-
hind the tall buildings and the sky
grew dark, he had placed the can
of kerosene in his car with the rags
—plain, non-descript rags that could
never be traced to him. And then
he had driven to the old tenement.
The lock on the cellar door was
no problem, and there was no one
around to get in the way. The rags
were placed, the kerosene was
_ spread, the match was struck, and
he was on his way. In seconds the
flames were licking at the ancient
walls and racing up the staircases.

The fire had come a long way
now. It looked as though the build-
ing had a good chance of caving in
before the blaze was extinguished.
He hoped vaguely that the build-
ing would fall. He wanted his fire
to win.

He glanced around again, and
was amazed at the size of the
crowd. All of them pressed close,
watching his fire. He wanted to
call to them. He wanted to scream
out that it was his fire, that he and

60

he alone had created it. With effort
he held himself back. If he cried
out it would be the end of it. They
would take him away and he
would never set another fire.

Two of the firemen scurried to
the tenement with a ladder. He
squinted at them, and recognized
them—Joe Dakin and Roger Haig.
He wanted to call hello to them,
but they were too far away to hear
him. He didn’t know them well,
but he felt as though he did. He
saw them quite often.

He watched Joe and Roger set
the ladder against the side of the
building. Perhaps there was some-
one trapped inside. He remem-
bered the other time when a small
boy had failed to leave the build-
ing in time. He could still hear
the screams—loud at first, then
softer until they died out to silence.
But this time he thought the build-
ing had been empty.

The fire was beautiful! It was
warm and soft as a woman. It sang
with life and roared with joy. It
seemed almost a person, with a
mind and a will of its own.

Joe Dakin started up the ladder.
Then there must be someone in the
building. Someone had not left in
time and was trapped with the
fire. That was a shame. If only
there were a way for him to warn
them! Perhaps next time he could
give them a telephone call as soon
as the blaze was set.

Of course, there was even a
beauty in trapping someone in the

MANHUNT

building. A human sacrifice to the
fire, an offering to the goddess of
Beauty. The pain, the loss of life
were unfortunate, but the beauty
was compensation. He wondered
who might be caught inside.

Joe Dakin was almost to the top
of the ladder. He stopped at a win-
dow on the fifth floor and looked
inside. Then he climbed through.

Joe is brave, he thought. I hope
he isn’t hurt. I hope he saves the
person in the building.

He turned around. There was a
little man next to him, a little man
in shabby clothes with a sad ex-
pression on his face. He reached
over and tapped the man on the
shoulder, :

“Hey!” he said. “You know
who’s in the building?”

The little man nodded word-
lessly.

“Who is it?”

“Mrs. Pelton,” said the little
man. “Morris Pelton’s mother.”

He had never heard of Morris
Pelton. “Well, Joell get her out.
Joe’s a good fireman.”

The little man shook his head.
“Can’t get her out,” he said. “Can’t
nobody get her out.”

He felt irritated. Who was this
little jerk to tell him? “What do
you mean?” he said. “I tell you
Joes a helluva fireman. He'll take
care of it.”

The little man flashed him a su-
perior look. “She’s fat,” he said.
“She’s a real big woman. She must
weigh two hundred pounds easy.

A FIRE AT NIGHT

This Joe’s just a little guy. How’s
he gonna get her out? Huh?” The
little man tossed his head trium-
phantly and turned away without
an answer.

Another sacrifice, he thought.

‘Joe would be disappointed. He’d

want to rescue the woman, but she
would die in the fire.

He looked at the window. Joe
should come out soon. He couldn’t
save Mrs. Pelton, and in a few
seconds he would be coming down

the ladder. And then the fire

would burn and burn and burn,

until the walls of the building
crumbled and caved in, and the
fire won the battle. The smoke
would curl in ribbons from the
ashes. It would be wonderful to
watch.

He looked up at the window sud-
denly. Something was wrong. Joe
was there at last, but he had the
woman with him. Was he out of
his mind?

The little man had not exag-
gerated. The woman was big, much
larger than Joe. He could barely
see Joe behind her, holding her in
his arms. Joe couldn’t sling her in-
to a fireman’s carry; she would
have broken his back.

He shuddered. Joe was going to
try to carry her down the ladder,
to cheat the fire of its victim. He
held her as far from his body as

he could and reached out a foot.

gingerly. His foot found the first
rung and rested on it.
He took his other foot from the

61

windowsill and reached out for the
next rung. He held tightly to the

woman, who was screaming now.

Her body shook with each scream,
and rolls of fat bounced up and
down.

The damned fool, he thought.
How could he expect to haul a fat
slob like that down five flights on
a ladder? He was a good fireman,
but he didn’t have to act like a
superman. And the fat bitch didn’t
even know what was going on.
She just kept screaming her head
off. Joe was risking his neck for
her, and she didn’t even appreciate
it at all.

He looked at Joe’s face as the
fireman took another halting step.
Joe didn’t look good. He had been
inside the building too long. The
smoke was bothering him.

Joe took another step and tot-
tered on the ladder. Drop her, he
thought. You goddamned fool, let
go of her!

And then he did. The woman
slipped suddenly from Joe’s grip,
and plummetted downward to the
sidewalk. Her scream rose higher

and higher as she fell, and then
stopped completely. She struck the
pavement like a bug smacking
against the windshield of a car.

His whole being filled with re-
lief. Thank God, he thought. It
was too bad for the woman, but
now Joe would reach the ground
safely. But he noticed that Joe
seemed to be in trouble. He was
still swaying back and forth. He
was coughing, too.

And then, all at once, Joe fell. He
left the ladder and began to drop
to the earth. His body hovered in
the air and floated down like a
feather. Then he hit the ground
and melted into the pavement.

At first he could not believe it.
Then he glared at the fire. Damn
you, he thought. You weren’t satis-
fied with the old woman. You had
to take a fireman too.

It wasn’t right.

The fire was evil. This time it
had gone too far. Now it would
have to suffer for it.

And he raised his hose and
trained it on the burning hulk of
the tenement, punishing the fire.

==

62

MANHUNT

ge a fleshy finger. It was truly golden,

She was such an innocent
little girl. And yet such
strange things happened
when she was around...

BY
D. E. FORBES

STAGE
FRIGHT

g NÑAROLINE PINCHER could have
C brushed her daughter’s hair
for hours. The pleasure she felt
from stroking the silky locks was
a personal thing, something like a
feeling she had known as a child
when she had carried a fine flannel
blanket held to her face. But now
Caroline was a woman and the
feeling had gone .. . except when
she brushed Margot’s hair.

She wound a golden curl around

she thought, not blonde or yellow,
but real shimmering gold. She re-
membered before Margot was born,
how she had prayed for a beautiful
little girl with blue eyes and golden
curls, All the time she had prayed
and when Margot was born she
knew her prayers had been an-
swered,

Margot moved her head quickly
and made a little sound when the
brush caught.

‘Im sorry, darling. Mother
wasn’t paying attention. Mother
was thinking about something
else.”

The young voice, clear as a
church bell from a tower, answered.

“Isot it. about time to go,
Mother?”

Caroline looked at her small
watch, purchased last year from
Margot’s earnings. “You're right as
usual, Kitten. We must fly.” She
got up from her chair, struggling
a little to raise her heavy body.
“Now, you remember everything
I’ve told you?”

Her daughter, slim and petite as
a fairy, rose. She looked like a
young princess in her rose velvet
frock and her small ermine hat.
Her slender feet wore black patent
slippers and little white socks.
Every gesture, thought Caroline,
full of grace.

They put on their coats. Caro-
line’s was a Persian ‘lamb which
she knew tended to make her look
heavier, but, my dear, so elegant.
Margot’s matched her hat. Some

64

of the other mothers, she knew,
thought Margot was overdressed.
But then they were just jealous.
And besides, their daughters (no
matter how talented) would never
be a star,

But Margot would. Oh, yes.
Caroline had known it the moment
they placed the newborn baby in
her arms. She had looked up at the
little man she had married and
breathed the words.

“Herb, she’s so beautiful. She’s
destined, Herb. That’s what she is.
Destined.”

Only of course then she hadn’t
known what Margot was destined
for. All through Margot’s babyhood
Caroline had been watching for
the signs. When she had mimicked
the words of a popular song at the
age of three, Caroline had thought.
A singer. Thats what she'll be.
Metropolitan or musical comedy.
Which shall we plan for?

At four she had sent Margot to
a progressive school where one of
the subjects taught was modern
dance. Miss Hildgard was most en-
tranced with Margot’s talents. The
ballet, Caroline had wondered, is
it to be the ballet? And she had
hugged the little girl to her, whis-
pering, “Oh, you marvelous, tal-
ented angel. There is no one like
you in the whole world.”

But at five the real talent had
emerged, plain and positive, for
all to see. A kindergarten drama,
where the little thespians had made
up their own lines, emoted as they

MANHUNT

pleased. The star, the shining
glorious star, was Margot. And
didn’t one of the fathers present
turn out to be a theatrical agent?
And didnt he come to Caroline
with the suggestion that her
daughter might do a small part in
a Broadway production seeking a
pretty little girl? Destined? Des-
tined, indeed.

But there had been obstacles.
Herb, for instance.

“Now, Caroline,” he had moved
his little head in that peculiar bird-
like way that he had, “I just think
that you should consider this thing
—very carefully. Margie,” Caroline
shuddered whenever he called her
darling by that common name, “is
only five years old. You’re all set to
put her on the stage, to toss her
into competition with children
years older—yes, and adults, too—
who must earn their living in the
theatre. It seems to me that that’s
an awful tough proposition for a
five-year old child.”

Caroline had been studying the
script containing the two lines that
Margot would speak. They con-
sisted of, “Good morning, Mama,”
and “I am a good girl, Mama.”
Caroline was busy planning ways
and means for her daughter to be
noticed—really noticed.

“Nonsense, Herb. What you say
might be true for an ordinary child.
But you know yourself, Margot is
no ordinary child.”

The angel in person had come
in then, perched herself on her

STAGE FRIGHT

father’s bony knee, requested
money for an ice-cream cone.

“And that’s another thing,” Caro-
line had been anxious to drive the
point home, “we could use the
money. Sixty-five dollars a week,
Herb, just for Margot to go to the
theatre every night and say two
lines and come home. Sixty-five
dollars a week. Why, that’s almost
as much as you make.”

Herb had produced a dime, pat-
ted his daughter’s head. “Let’s not
discuss it—in front of the child.”

Caroline had bristled. “Not dis-
cuss it in front of the child! It’s
her future, isn’t it? She’s the one
most involved, isn’t she? Do you
think she wants to be a part of-,”
she groped for words, “the com-
mon herd? We were awarded a
precious gift when Margot was
born. Made custodians of it. And
you want to throw it all away
when she gets her big chance.”

And then Margot, the little minx,
had looked up into her father’s face
with all her charm and said, “Dad-
dykins, I’d like to. I really would.
Please, daddy. Just this once,
daddy. Please.”

And that had been that—for the
moment. Margot had been noticed.
Perhaps it was the fact that the
other children were such clods and
Margot such a dainty little miss.
Perhaps it was the cute way Caro-
line taught her to say “Mama”, -
not quite the European way, not
quite the American way either.

The director had asked her to say
65.

it like the rest, but Margot, as sweet
and docile as an angel, would for-
get and slip right back into her
original pronunciation. And after
she got a hand the first night, the
director hadn’t corrected her again.

When she got the part in
“Avenging Angel”, a really big
part with a whole scene to herself.
Caroline had switched her to the
Professional Children’s School.
And Herb had interfered again.

“Didn’t I hear Margot crying in
her room?”

Caroline had been preparing din-
ner and wondering if Margot’s
‘raise in salary would warrant her
hiring a part-time maid.

“Oh-—that’s nothing. Tempera-
ment. She had a quarrel with one
of her teachers in school. She’s just
letting off steam.”

“What do you mean, she had a
quarrel with the teacher? What
happened?” Herb had looked so
small, so bewildered, Caroline had
felt almost like laughing.

“Oh, don’t worry. I gave her
what for, I can tell you. She lit into
Margot about some little fib she
claimed Margot had told. I told
her, I did. I told her my daughter
was no liar and if Margot said
Sarah Lane was the one who spilled
the bottle of ink, then Sarah Lane
was the one who did it. By the
time I was through, the woman
backed dowh.”

Herb ran a hand over his balding
head. —

“But why did the teacher say it

66

was a fib? Surely she must have
had some basis for making such an
accusation.”

Caroline had peeled a potatoe
with a vengeance, “That’s just it.
She had no reason, except that she
claimed the other child had been,
as she put it, ‘more reliable’. More
reliable. More reliable, indeed.”
She threw the potatoe into the pot.

“I knew this would happen.”
Her husband sat wearily at the
kitchen table. “It’s just what I was
afraid of.”

Caroline remembered, even now,
her surprise. “You knew what
would happen?” Her tones had
been as sharp as the paring knife
she held. “Just what, such a ter-
rible what, has happened?”

“Its just—,” Herb’s little mouth
stretched, searching for words,
“she’s too young for such an atmos-
phere, such competition. They’re at
each other tooth and nail, these
babies, on stage and even off. There
was that incident when Margot and
that other little girl were found
fighting back stage, physically fight-
ing, and had to be pulled apart.
Each claimed the other had slapped
her. A fine thing, a little lady her
age involved in a brawl. I tell you,
Caroline, my mind’s made up,
We're going to stop this thing be-
fore it goes too far.”

Caroline had stood very still,
kept her voice controlled. “You’re
mistaken, Herb. Were going to
stop nothing. She’s just beginning
to get someplace. And you're not

MANHUNT

going to throw a monkey wrench
into the works.”

Herb had drawn himself up to
his full five-foot-six. “I’m sorry,
Caroline. I know how much pleas-
ure you gain from it. But I am
Margot’s father—and I say she is
going to quit.”

And then she had called a halt
to it. She hadn’t wanted to, but
shed had to. “And do you know
why youre her father—do you?
Because you would marry me. You
were available and I accepted you.
Not because I wanted you, heaven
knows I didn’t, but because I
wanted a child. That’s all. And
that’s the truth. Margot was the
answer to my prayer,” she had
stood over him then, the paring
knife still in her hand, “and before
Pd allow you to ruin her life, Pd
.. . I'd,” she drew in her breath
and hissed, “I’d kill you.”

She looked up then to see Mar-
got in the doorway and after
searching her daughter’s face to
read her reaction, Caroline decided
she was glad that she had heard.

That had been the last obstacle.
From then on the sailing had been
more or less smooth. In the three
years that had passed Margot had,
to be sure, Jost a few auditions, but
she had appeared in two long-run
productions and gotten excellent
notices.

And now-—today—she was to
audition for the juvenile plum of
the year. The part of “Kathy” in
“The Changling”.

STAGE FRIGHT

Caroline had explained the part.
Slowly and carefully. “This little -
girl is, on the surface, a lovely little
angel. But inside she is capable of
anything, anything to get what she
wants. Do you understand?”

Margot had watched her with
wide eyes, nodded her shining
head.

“So you must remember to con-
trast the lines. When Kathy is with
other people she is sweet, charm-
ing, an old-fashioned tintype of a
child. When she is alone, she is
capable of the worst sort of
violence.”

Margot had smiled, such a beau-
tiful smile, such perfect teeth,
jumped up and kissed her mother.
“Oh, Mummy, you're such a help
to me. I don’t know what Id do
without you.” And then they’d
hugged each other and Caroline
had answered fervently, “I don’t
know what I’d do without you.”

Caroline looked down at her
now, the sedate little figure sitting
beside her on the straight chair.
Of all the children grouped around.
them, none could compare to
Margot. Of that she was sure. She
sat back and watched the try-outs
with a professional eye.

When it was all over they took a
cab home by way of celebration.
“Not a one of them could hold a
candle to you, darling. You'll be
magnificent as Kathy and unless I *
miss my guess this is the sort of
thing the movies will pick up. Just
think, Margot, we'll go to Holly-

67

wood and you'll be a move start’:

She kissed the top of her head.
“My own little Shirley Temple.
Just imagine!”

It was the next morning when
the news came. She twinkled at
_ Margot as she answered the phone.
“Yes, this is the residence of Mar-
got Parks.” They had thought it
wise to change Pincher to Parks.
And then to Margot, “It’s them.
It’s they. Oh dear,” and she gig-
pled. “Yes. Yes, we're available.”
They had long ago abandoned the
agent. He had turned out to be
third rate. “Yes . . . oh, I see.” Her
` words were slower now, the
twinkle had gone. “Yes. Of course.”
She tried to make her tone pleasant
again. “Certainly. Were delighted.
Monday at ten. Of course. We'll
be there. Thank you. Thank you,
very much.”

“We got the part, Mama? We
got the part. Oh, I know we did,
Mama. We got the part.” And
Margot began a wildly graceful
series of pirouettes.

Caroline clutched the door jamb.
“Stop it, Margot. And stop saying
‘Mama’ in that ridiculous way.
Stop it. Now.”

Margot halted on one toe, her
_ blue eyes enormous. “But . . . they
want us at rehearsal. So we did get
the part. What—”

Caroline sank into a chair.
“Vivian Maynard got the part.
You're her . . . understudy.”

Margot wrinkled her smooth
young brow. “Understudy!”

68

Caroline could only nod.

Margot stamped her tiny foot. |
“Well, I won’t, I tell you. I won’t!
That’s as good as being dead and
buried, and I won’t do it.”

“That’s what I thought at first,
baby. I almost told them to get
somebody else. But then I remem-
bered—if anything ever happened
to Vivian, you'd still get your big
chance.”

Margot’s pretty pink mouth
drooped in a pout. “You know
nothing will happen to Vivian.
She’s as strong as a horse. And
looks like one as well.”

Caroline sighed, reached out to
gather her in. Margot moved away.

“You must have told me to do it
wrong. They didn’t like my inter-
pretation and I did just what you
told me. You coached me wrong.
It’s all your fault!”

Caroline’s mouth dropped open
and she stared at the gold and pink
package of fury confronting her.

“Margot,” she said and stopped.
Her pale eyes filled with tears. “I’m
so sorry.”

They stared at each other, mother
and daughter, and then Margot let
out an anguished cry, turned on
her patent leather heel and ran
from the room. Caroline heard her
door slam in agony. Margot stayed
there the rest of the day. Caroline
suffered.

But by Monday morning the .-
world had turned right-side-up.
They went, in harmony, to re-
hearsal and Margot behaved ex-

MANHUNT

actly right with just the right
amount of deference for Vivian
Maynard. Caroline breathed a sigh
of relief and began a series of daily
prayers.

“Measles. Or a broken arm.
Nothing too serious, please. Just
enough to keep her out of the play
for awhile. Please. I know Margot’s
future was plotted in the stars. I
know something will happen. Be-
cause Margot was born to be a
star.”

She was very sure, but as first
night opening drew near it seemed
as though the gods had forsaken
them. Vivian bloomed in the part.
She played it in a much lower key
than Caroline would have pre-
ferred, but Al Peters, the director,
seemed absurdly pleased. Margot
didn’t seem to care—at all.

And then—bolt from the blue—it
happened. At dress rehearsal. Peters
was struggling with a difficult bit
between husband and wife that had
never come off well. Vivian had
gone to her dressing room and
Margot was sitting quietly in the
wings, watching. Caroline took the
opportunity to go to the ladies’
room and freshen her face.

She was just coming out when
she heard it. A shrill childish
scream, starting out full-bodied and
thinning as it rose up and up. It
ended in a crash, a thump, and
dead silence. Then there was move-
ment from all around. People ran
from the stage, from the dressing
rooms above. And, while Caroline

STAGE FRIGHT

stood rooted, there were more
screams.

She moved forward and sud-
denly Margot was at her side.

“What is it, Mama? What hap-
pened?”

Caroline shook her head and
they moved more quickly, came
upon the circle of spectators, saw
Vivian Maynard’s mother, sobbing,
being led away.

“Call the ambulance.” Al Peters’
face was grim.

The circle parted then and
Vivian lay on the floor, in an awk-
ward position, still and white. One
braid lay stretched out from her
head. Like a big, broken doll,
dropped and discarded.

Caroline tugged at Peters sleeve.

“What—what happened?”

He turned dull eyes on her.

“She fell. God know how. She
fell from up there.”

Caroline looked up to the wind-
ing metal staircase, to the narrow —
balcony that edged the dressing
rooms. “Is she hurt bad?”

Peters shrugged. “Id say it
didn’t do her any good.”

Caroline was surprised to hear
Margot’s voice, firm and clear,
“She looks dead.”

Peters turned slowly, looked
down at her. His face was inscrut-
able. “Get ready,” he said. “We'll
call a special rehearsal this after-
noon. You'll have to go on.”

Margot smiled up at him, her
most winsome smile. “I’m ready,”
she said.

69

Peters’ eyes narrowed for a mo-
ment. “Incidentally,” he said and
his voice was low, “Where were
you when it happened?”

Caroline felt her heart stop.

“Why-,” the blue eyes were
wide, “I was in the ladies’ room.
With Mama. Wasn’t I, Mama?”

Caroline felt her head move up
and down. Inside a blackness was
spreading and the lights grew dim.
Then, after a long time, her heart
beat again, but not the way a heart
should, beat at all. Oh, so slowly.
Oh, so hard. Somehow it felt as
though it were incased in ice.

70

a

Bi tten

An Indianapolis thief spotted a messenger with a black satchel as he left a
business building and approached a nearby bank. He seized the satchel and
sped away in his car. The messenger told police the bag contained a number
of sets of false teeth that he was taking to a dentist down the street.

Sth Sick

A Shipshewana, Ind., farmer, Sherman Schrock, turned the tables on four
youths who had been stealing his gasoline. Schrock filled the gasoline barrel
with water. When the boys returned and filled their car, the vehicle stalled a
short distance away. Schrock reported the abandoned car to state police, who
checked its registration and arrested the youths.

P. risoner Dia

Two Becker County, Mich., jail prisoners shared a $5 reward for identifying
the thief who had been looting cars parked in a lot beneath their cells, Sheriff
David Wennerstrom had offered the sum to any prisoner spotting the culprit.

6 aAA TEA.

William A, Peak, of Galesburg, Ill., told police that his kayak had been
stolen from his back yard, Newspaper accounts quoted Peak as stating that
a kayak was “a very tippy canoe.” A few days later the kayak was returned
to the yard. Attached to it was a note: “Yow’re so right.”

° Ois Way Trip

In the Miami, Fla., jail, Michael Rush, 29, let himself down on a rope made
of mattress covers from the 22nd floor to the jail’s kitchen on the 15th floor.
But the kitchen doors: were locked for the night.

MANHUNT

CC Penk!” Taars what she called

Po “Punk! You're nothing
but a two-for-a-nickel punk! That’s
all you'll ever be. Punk! Two-bit
punk! Pushing dames around, be-
cause that’s all you'll ever have:
two bits! Punk! P-u-n-k!”

I let her have it, my hard fist,
right in the kisser, and she went

BY
WILFRED
ALEXANDER

the
chips
are down

down; she came up with a busted
lip and bloody nose.

I hated it when she came up
bleeding and cut like that, because
in that condition she refused to go
to work, and when my broad didn’t
work, I often didn’t eat.

Now I wondered what she
would say when she saw me with
eight thousand smackeroos in my
pockets. Ha! Ha! I rushed along
over the broken, slippery wet ce-
ment pavement. Tall, dirty, gray

His dame had called him a punk, but she
wouldn’t be calling him that any more. Not
after he'd clipped a hard guy for eight grand ...

71

stone tenement buildings towered
over me. I met sleepy-eyed men
and women who had left their
homes at five o’clock in the morn-
ing to go to work. The crisp and
wrinkled bills of money, genuine
U.S. currency, of various denomina-
tions to total more than eight thou-
sand bucks bulged three of my
pockets: legal tender, none of it
counterfeit or hot.

I plunged down the street at a
pace faster than walking, but I did
not run, Every half dozen steps or
more, I turned my face over my
left shoulder to see if Raven’s men
were following me. Soon as he
caught on to the cross, he’d be hot
on my tail with his goons. No one
tailed me. Several times I stumbled
on the broken sidewalk and my
legs kicked wildly about under me.
Passers-by turned to stare at me; no
doubt, they believed I had been
out all night no a spree and was
now too drunk to go to work.

But I didn’t care what they
thought. A man with eight thou-
sand dollars in his pocket was above
the suspicions of these stupid slum
faces, these dumb punk faces. I
turned off the street and burst
through an apartment house ves-
tibule door. In the vestibule I
hesitated. I had to be sure. I stuck
my head out the door and looked
up and down the street. I detected
no one following me and mur-

mured, “Good,” to myself.

Turning, I ran up the stairs and

beat on the door marked B2 at the

72

top of the stairs. I hammered on
the door with my fist and kicked
it with my feet. Where was that
dumb broad? I hadn’t all day. She
usually woke up easier than this.

“Anna!”

An impatient voice sang out to
me in a grumbling tone.

“Wait a Goddamn minute, will
you?”

When she opened the door, she
was wearing a pink pajama top.
She never wore the bottoms. Her
long bare legs always seemed much
longer than they actually were
when she wore just the pajama top,
with her breasts holding the ma-
terial out in front. She had gone
to bed without putting her hair
up and it was falling over her face.
Her red toe nails turned up, as if
to point at me, and for a minute,
as if I really were a punk, I forgot
that I was on the run. I imagined
what those wide hips of hers would
look like draped in the silk I was
going to buy her, a dress cut so low
at the neck that it showed off her
magnificent breasts. A pretty pair
of shoes for her tiny. feet would
make all the guys stare.

“Don’t just stand there panting,
out of breath, like the cops are
after you,” she said. “Come in.”

I stepped in, kicked the door
close, and grabbed her shoulders,
squeezing them tightly. I quickly
forgot her body, concerned with
myself.

“Weve got to hurry,”
“We've got to go away.”

I said.

MANHUNT

She knocked my hands off her
shoulders, pushed me back, and
picked up a pack of Camels from
the dresser.

“I ain’t got to go nowhere with
you, punk!”

The words cut me deep, and I
bled inside. I grabbed her wrist, the
wrist of the hand in which she held
the cigarette, as she tried to climb
back in bed, and fire from the cig-
arette fell on the sheets, burning a
hole in them.

“You’re going with me!”

She stood on her knees in the
bed. “Going where?”

“Chicago first.”

“Tm not going to any Chicago.
Pm staying right here in New
York. Now either come to bed or
get out. I’m tired after slinging
drinks in a tavern all night.”

I had no time to argue. But she
was my girl, and a guy’s girl is
supposed to do what he says. I
slapped her face. That’s the only
kind of arguments some broads
understand. Anna’s one of them.
Her cigarette went flying across the
room. I grabbed her pajama top
and ripped it off her back. She
didn’t try to cover up, but she got
mad. Before she could open her
mouth, I had jerked her off the
bed and sent her sprawling over
towards her closet.

“Get some clothes on and let’s
get out,of here!” Her flesh was
trembling. “Look!”

I pulled the crumpled bills of
money from my pocket, first from

THE CHIPS ARE DOWN

this pocket, then from that pocket,
now from another pocket, and
threw them in a pile on the bed.
She approached the bed slowly, and
picked up one of the bills gingerly,
as if it contained a deadly conta-
gious poison. “Dick!” she whis-
pered. So much money frightened
her. I searched my pockets for more
money.

“You still think I’m just a punk,
huh?”

I sat on the bed beside her. She
put one hand on my shoulder and
spoke with her face so close to
mine that her breath tickled my
face.

“You won all that in one night?”

I began to smooth out the crum-
pled bills, putting them in a pile
on top of the straight ones.

“Tm taking you with me,” I said,
“Pm not asking you if you want
to go. You’re my woman, so I’m
taking you. Now if you got noth-
ing you want to take, put some
rags on your bare tail and come on.
Any other skirt’'d be glad I even
considered taking them, but no,
not you. Not Miss Anna!”

She stared at me suspiciously,
then at the money. Her voice quiv-
ered.

“You cheated Raven with
crooked dice!”
“I won!”

“He'll kill you!”

My fist lashed out and caught
her in the mouth. A shock went
through me as though I had struck
myself. Quickly I picked her up

73

and looked at her face. I didn’t
want her bruised up, not when I
had so much money and we could
really live a while. Luckily, I hadn’t
hurt her. I held her in my arms.
Slowly her smooth, soft arms came
around my neck, embracing me
like a chicken’s wings embraced a
chicken’s body. I felt her cheek
against mine. Her face was hot.

‘Within a few minutes we were
hurrying along the wet streets
down which I had fled not half
an hour ago. Near the subway
entrance, a Pontiac, blue over white
were its colors, with white walled
tires, pulled up besides us. A
short, stocky man in need of a
shave jumped out in front of us.
He kept one hand in his pocket.

“Blackie!” I said.

Anna carried the largest suitcase;
I carried the smallest. I felt her
other hand squeeze the muscle in
my arm.

“Raven wants you,” Blackie said.

I knew the driver, too: Slim. He
kept the engine running. I meas-
ured the distance to the subway
entrance. I could probably knock
Blackie down and beat it down the
stairs before Slim got out of the
car. But then where would I go?
A goon like this Slim or Blackie
had no better sense than to fire
in a crowd.

‘Tve got to take my girl to the
train,” I said. “I'll be right around.”

“We'll take her down.”

The goon took my arm and
pushed me toward the car. I was

74

ready to take my chances on belting
him one and sprinting it a bit,
when Anna spoke.

“Give me my bag, Dick. I'll take
the subway alone.”

Anna was a stubborn broad you
had to hit on the head before she
obeyed you, but she wasn’t dumb.
I carried the suitcase with the
money in it. I gave it to her and
got in the car. Slim leaned out
the window.

“Better bring the girl, too,” he
said. His eyes were on the two
pieces of luggage Anna carried.

“Now wait a minute!” Anna
said. “Pll have you arrested—”

“Shut up!” Blackie shoved her
into the car and threw the luggage
in after her. He crowded into the
back with Anna and me and the
luggage and slammed the door.

Slim kicked the car into gear
with the heel of his right hand,
raced the motor, and sped down
the street. The tires made a sizzling
noise on the wet pavement. Blackie
smiled in the mirror at the face
of the driver. I held Anna’s small
hand. Her nail polish had chipped.
She trembled. Her hand was cold.
Blackie opened the small suitcase
and discovered the money.

“Hey, Slim.”

Nea

“Ace here is really loaded. Old
gentleman trick with his lady trav-
eler by his side.”

“Wonder what Raven would say
if a grand was missing when we
got there?”

MANHUNT

“He'd probably beat hell out of
Ace here until he coughed it up.”

I looked at the side of Slim’s face
and saw that Slim was smiling. An
idea began to ferment. I turned
to Blackie. ;

“What does Raven want with
me?”

“Raven wants his money back.
Queer bird, that Raven, wanting
his money back.”

“I won it.”

Slim laughed. “I guess that
makes Raven a sore loser. He’ll be
sorry to hear that.”

Blackie sat the suitcase on the
floor and took a revolver from his
coat pocket and began to inspect it.

“Tl split with you,” I bargained.
“Pd rather split with you than
give it all up to a sore loser. Tell
him you couldn’t find me.”

Blackie was preoccupied. Slim
did not answer.

“You could tell him you never
found me.”

They were each thinking over
my proposal. Quickly I divided
eigeht thousand dollars three ways.
A pretty good haul, I thought. But
neither of the goons knew how the
other felt; both were willing to
cross Raven but who would speak
first? I could read their minds. The
silence was revealing. When
Blackie looked up, I thought, “This
is it!”

“Hey, doll,” Blackie said.
“What’s your name?”

“Just call me Anna.”

The goon reached over and felt

THE CHIPS ARE DOWN

her bare knee. She pinched his
wrist and bent his thumb back.

“Ouch!” l

Slim laughed. “You let him do
that to your girl, Ace?” He winked.
“How did a punk like you get a
broad stacked like that?”

I leaned forward, over the front
seat. What could I do? I couldn’t
face Raven, get roughed up, and
lose all the money. I'd lose the girl,
too, because I did nothing when
the men talked to her this way or
put their hands on her. Now where
did that leave me, up the creek
without a pot to pour. She
wouldn’t stand me a meal or throw
out a drink to me on the cuff when
I dropped into the joint where she
worked. Raven would spread the
word that I was poison; my name
would be mud all over the city, if
I survived with my life.

“Whats Raven going to give you
when you bring me in?” I was
desperate.

Blackie leaned in front of Anna,
pointing the Revolver at my stom-
ach. I pushed back into the seat as
far as I could.

“Listen, thief! One more word
out of you, and PII let you have it.
If we wanted to cross Raven, all
wed have to do is tell him you
put up a fight and got hit too
hard, croaked, and we couldn’t find
the money. We don’t have to split
nothing with you! We owe you
nothing! Now shut up!”

He pulled the trigger of the re-
volver. I nearly fainted when I

75

heard the hammer snap home. The
snap was like an explosion to me.
Pleased by the sound, Blackie put
the revolver in his pocket and of-
fered me this advice.
- “Never try to corrupt an honest
guy, chum.”

I had nothing more to say to
these studs.

Slim turned into the parking lot

of the Congo Club and stopped
the car outside of Raven’s garage.
Blackie picked up the small suitcase
and got out. He held the door for
Anna and me. The rock graveled
earth made a crunching sound un-
der our feet as we moved toward
a rear entrance of the club. Anna
trusted no one, with her woman’s
mind; she carried the suitcase
which contained her clothes. We
went through the kitchen, into the
club with the chairs on the table,
and toward their bosss office.
Raven’s door was cracked. A light
shone through the opening.

“We found them, boss.” Blackie
threw the suitcase on Raven’s desk.
“Just before they flew the coop.”

Raven was growing to be an old
man. Already his hair had turned
grey and his shoulders drooped.
He stood behind the desk, a short
man of five feet-five inches tall. He
wore a gray suit. The collar of his
white shirt was open, without a
tie. He was sweating, though the
office was not warm. Without re-
plying to Blackie, he opened the
suitcase and took the money out,
placing it in piles on the desk.

76

“Whats the meaning of this?”
I asked. “Are you a sore loser?”

“Under the circumstances, Pm a
vengeful loser,” Raven said.

From his desk he took a silver
cup. In it were six dice, three pair.
He rolled the half dozen: squares
on the desk. I recognized the
loaded pair and stared at them.

“Pick up one pair,” Raven said
softly.

My breath was short and diffi-
cult. I leaned across the table, my
face close to his.

“Why do you think I cheated?”

“Nobody’s accusing you.”

“You act like it.”

Raven pointed at the Dice. “Se-
lect a pair.”

Gingerly I picked up two of the
dice. Anna stared at my face; in-
stead of being afraid now, she
seemed confident but bored, im-
patient.

“Now roll them,” said Raven.

I dropped the dice into the cup,
shook them, and emptied the cup
on the table.

“Pretty good point.”

He picked up the two dice, lean-
ing forward against the table, and
said: “Now once again. Two more.”

“What're we playing for?” I
tried to sound poised.

“The jackpot.” He pointed at the
money.

“That’s my money. What do I
get if I win?”

- “Your life,” he said. “I’m giving
you the odds.”

Taking a chance, waiting for a

MANHUNT

clue how to play my hand, I picked
up two more dice. “I never cheated
you, Raven.” I shook the dice in
the cup and rolled them on the
desk.

“Hummmm!” Raven sucked his
teeth. “Not so good this time.” He
picked up the second pair of dice.
“You get one more chance.”

I stared at the loaded dice. The
dice stared back at me, black eyes
glaring out of white faces, many
eyes on many faces that seemed to
stare in every direction of the room.
But I could not touch them. Every
spot on the dice was an eye accus-
ing me of cheating, ready to be-
tray me. I could not touch the
dice. I raised my hands, but the
dice frightened me. Raven stared
across the desk into my eyes. He
leaned toward me slightly.

“Roll the last pair!” he shouted.
His face was drenched with sweat.

I backed away from the desk.
Raven picked up the crooked dice
and ran around the desk.

“Why did you save these? Be-
cause you know about them? Be-
cause they belong to you and you
didn’t get a chance to take them
with you?”

He shook the dice in my face.
They knocked against one another,
rattling ia my ears, like the devil
knocking at the door of a doomed
man’s heart.

“You damn crook!”

He raised his knee into me and
when I bent over, he uppercutted
me in the chest. In pain I sank to

THE CHIPS ARE DOWN

the floor. Agony made me double
my knees up against my chest. I
clenched my teeth together to keep
from crying out in pain. Every
beat of my heart seemed to send a
pain through my stomach. Raven
kicked me. I grabbed my side,
groaning on the floor. My one
thought was that if I did not fight
back, he might let me go lightly.
If I fought back, I hadn’t a chance
against his goons. I lay on the floor
waiting for him to tell me to get

up.

Get up!” he said. “Stand up like
a man!”

He slammed the top down on
the suitcase and threw it across the
room. Anna ran to pick it up. Her
pocketbook dangled from her
shoulder by a long strap. I pulled
myself to my feet. Blackie and Slim
stood watching me.

“You mean I can go now?” I
asked.

“Go? You're going all right,”
Raven said. “When you go, you'll
be so marked up, the whole
world’ll know not to trust you.”
He turned to Anna. “Don’t you
think guys like him ought to be
marked, so people will know how
to be more careful?”

“What about the broad?” Blackie
asked,

“She can keep me company while
you take smarty pants here down
to the cellar and put some identifi-
cation marks on his face.”

They seized me by my arms.
Anna ran up to Rayen and grabbed

77

his arms, pleading into his face.

“What are going to do to him?”
she cried. “Don’t hurt him. He
didn’t mean to cheat you or any-
body. He did it for me. He was
only trying to be a big guy for me.
Please! Please, Mister! Let him go!
I made him do it by nagging him
and driving him. Pll take him
away, anywhere, only let him go.
I—l’ll do anything you say!”

The tears running down her face,
the whimper in her voice, gave me
strength; I could take anything
they gave me. They couldn’t hurt
me.

“Don’t beg for me, Anna!”

That hurt me more than any-
thing, having her beg like that, and
offer to do anything. How many
guys had a girl like that?

I was sorry for all the times Id
beat her.

“Go ahead, you idiots!” screamed
Raven, as if he had not heard her
cry. “What are you waiting for?”

They turned me around and
pushed me toward the door. There
was a noise behind us, a cry from
Raven, and a cry from Anna. The
goons turned me loose; we all
whirled around. Raven lay on the
floor, and Anna was pulling at the
drawers of his desk. The goons
each went for their rods, but I was
behind them. I grabbed them and
knocked their heads together, be-
fore they’ got the rods out of their
pockets. By that time, Raven was
on his feet, and Anna had found
a revolver in his desk, and was

78

pointing it, waving it wildly about
the room.

“Over here! Over here with your
boss!” She ordered them around
like a cop might do. Then to me:
“Get their guns.”

I lifted their rods. `

“Now hunt around to see if you
can’t find something so we can tie
them up to keep them for a while.”

I searched around the office but
could find nothing.

“Try the cellar,” she said.

Raven and his boys stood against
the wall with their hands hanging
loosely at their sides.

“You don’t get away with this,”
he said. “This is robbery.”

“Move,” Anna said, “and I'll
shoot you.”

Even though she’d never picked
up a bottle or drew a knife or
pulled a gun on me when we
fought, I knew she’d shoot.

Somehow, though, I didn’t be-
lieve I'd ever -have the nerve to
bust her one in the mouth again.

On the train, she turned to me;
the soft pressure of her thigh in-
creased against my leg.

“Darling,” she said, “you were
going to let them beat you and
take the money, weren’t you?”

“What else could I do?”

“But it was your money. You
won it. You did win it, didn’t
you?”

“Of course.” We both smiled.

“I hate a sore loser,” she said. “I
hate a sore loser worse than I hate
a two-bit, two-for-a-nickle punk.”

MANHUNT

He came from Louisiana, but he didn't.
ahimdxed and fifty grand in his pocket...

His name was Welles, but it wasn?
He looked like a bumi Aad

&.

T NIGHT -was thick ang Wasa
with a threatened rain, He
drove through the thick night
down the coastal highway, gomg —
much faster than the law allowed, .f
yet taking no chances and func-*~
tioning with an instinctive cun- >
ning of which he was only partly <>
aware. Approaching Long Beach, «>> j
he eased up on the accelerator and R ANo ot
went through the city like any

other late driver going home. Only BY
when the car had again nosed out WILLIAM O’FARRELL

$ z
4 es
a z Í f;
5 ner a eS SS N.
‘ : ag E

79

on the open highway and was
headed south toward San Diego
did his foot sharply feed gas into
the carburetor again.

No red light blinked behind him.
No siren shrieked him to a stop.
A little after midnight, thirty-five
miles north of San Diego, he saw
a house. It was a house that he
had never seen before but he knew
instinctively that it was empty.
There were no lights in the win-
dows. He turned the car into the
drive.

A double garage was at the drive-
way’s end, and that was empty too.
He forced it open with a tire iron,
ran the car inside and shut the
door. Then he climbed behind the
wheel, let his head fall back and
closed his eyes. For a while he
rested.

For a little while.

But pictures formed in his mind,
nebulous figures like gray, accusing
ghosts. He shook his head, trying
to rid himself of them. They
pressed in closer. He sat up
straight, opened the glove compart-
ment, took out a pint of Scotch.
He drank, the whiskey trickling
over his chin. It warmed him,
pushed the ghosts away. Presently
he slept.

His head was throbbing when

he awoke and there was nausea in -

his stomach and his mind. The
ghosts were back again, and in
the instant between sleep and wak-
ing he saw a woman’s face. Her
reproachful eyes looked directly in-

80

to his. He groaned, fell over on the
seat and vomited. As suddenly as
she had come the woman disap-
peared.

There were a couple of drinks
left in the pint. He took a white
pill from a bottle in his pocket
and washed it down with whiskey.
When his headache grew a little
less intense he began acting in an
orderly, decisive manner as though
according to a pre-arranged plan.
From the glove compartment he
took a second pint and put it in
his pocket. He felt his wallet but
did not open it. He knew how
much money it contained. He
knew how much was pinned to the
inside of his shirt. He opened the
door at his side and climbed out
of the car.

He started to leave the garage
but turned back, unstrapped the
car’s registration from the driving
shaft. He unscrewed the license
plate and took it with him when
he went outside.

Inland, the sky was growing
light. In another hour it would be
dawn. He hurried to the road,
walked quickly toward a cluster
of lights a quarter of a mile away.
The license plate he threw into a
ditch.

The lights came from an all-night _
eatery. Three trucks were parked
in front, two of them headed
north. The third was headed south.
He approached the cafe’s plate-
glass window, cautiously looked
inside. Three truck drivers drink-

MANHUNT

ing coffee at a counter. A languid
fry cook with a toothpick in his
mouth. He turned away, feeling
a faint distaste.

The body of the southbound
truck had high sideboards and a
canvas top. He parted the canvas
at the rear and crawled inside. The
truck was not carrying a load.
When his eyes had adjusted to the
denser darkness, he made out an
empty fruit crate. He sat on it, put
his arms around his knees and held
them tight. Gradually his trembling
lessened. He opened the second
pint and took a drink.

A screen door slammed and foot-
steps crunched toward him. He sat
very still as the driver climbed into
the cab. The motor started and the
truck gave a sudden lurch ahead.
Although he had been expecting
that, it startled him. Then, as they
reached the smooth bed of the
highway, he settled back into a
state of dull acceptance. He focused
his eyes on the canvas sidewalls,

watched them slowly grow light.

A limp, dark object dangled
within his range of vision. Narrow-
ing his eyes, he identified it as a
suit of coveralls. Minutes passed
before he removed it from its sus-
pending hook. More time went by
while he did nothing but sit
quietly, holding it in his hands.
Then he pulled the coveralls over
his own: clothes. He rubbed his
hands on the floor and smeared his
face with dirt. After that he sat
and waited while the miles un-

IT NEVER HAPPENED

wound and the dawn turned into
morning.

The truck bumped over tracks.
He parted the canvas and looked
out. San Diego. Another quarter
of an hour, at the first stop light
...no, the second stop.

2.

They stopped, went on for ten
more minutes, stopped again. A
quick look out the rear showed a
deserted street. He dropped from
the truck as it was getting under
way again. He went quickly to the
first corner, rounded it, and round-
ed two more before. he slowed
down.

The first used car lot that he
found was closed. He entered a
lunch room across. the street and.
sat down in a booth.

“Coffee, black,” he told
waitress.

“Juice, eggs, Danish pastry?”

“Just coffee. Wait,” he said. “Pll
have one doughnut, please.”

The doughnut was stale, but the
hot coffee gave him strength. He
drank two cups. Meanwhile he
watched the car lot and went
through the pockets of both the

the

‘ coveralls and his own clothes.

His own pockets contained a
wallet packed with bills of large.
denominations, plus a number of
more readily negotiable smaller.
bills. There were also cigarettes,
matches, keys, a driving license and.
the registration of the car he had

81

left behind. That, with his whiskey
and the bottle of pills, was the lot.
In the coveralls he found a driving
license and more cigarettes. The
license was in the name of Peter
Jarvis Welles—home address, Ox-
nard. He put it in the breast pocket
of his coat. He also saved the two
bottles, his money and the ciga-
rettes. The other things he set be-
fore him in a little pile.

There was movement in the lot
across the street. He picked up the
things on the table and went out,
He paused at the curb to shred
his own papers into bits and drop
them with his keys into a trash
disposal can. He crossed to the
used car lot and stopped before a
last year’s Cadillac.

“Yes, sir?” It was a stocky, bald-
ing salesman. “Nice job.”

He grinned. “Ain’t for me,
mister.” He had spoken to the
waitress with no perceptible accent.
Now he had an exaggerated south-
ern drawl. “Just figured on some-
thing might hold together long
enough to get me home.”

“Where’s home?”

“Pine Ridge, Louisiana. Just a
little place.”

“Mister, I got just the car for
you,” the salesman said.

An hour later he drove an old
Pontiac off the lot. It rattled, and
there was evidence that at one time
it had been wrecked. But it ran,
and it was registered in the name
of Peter Jarvis Welles. He turned
south on the Tia Juana road.

82

But only for about six blocks.
Then something slowed him. Panic,
combined with the same sure in-
stinct that had governed his driving
the night before. Suddenly he made
a right turn, circled the block and
sped back the way that he had
come. When he left town three
quarters of an hour later he was
headed east toward the pass through
the mountains, toward El Paso and
Juarez.

Then for a week he disappeared.

Seven days later a man who iden-
tified himself as Peter Jarvis Welles
applied for a tourist permit at the
Mexican Information Service on
the outskirts of Laredo, Texas. His
identification was an Arizona auto-
mobile registration and a driving
license from the same state. His
home address was Yuma. The car
he drove was a new Buick con-
vertible and its rear end was packed
with expensive luggage. He had
five thousands dollars in cash and
eight bank books showing deposits
totalling over one hundred and
forty-five thousand dollars. He in-
tended, he said, to run down to
Monterrey. Because of the rainy
season, which would be coming
along shortly, he didn’t think he
would go farther. The permit was
made out.

That was in the afternoon, and
he checked in at a motel to kill
time until the following morning.
Some previous guest had left a
newspaper on the closet shelf. He
glanced at it casually.

MANHUNT

The usual scare headlines. Two
airliners had crashed. A boy had
murdered his sleeping father with
an axe. Police still wanted a man
named Richard Hammet, described
as a California chain-restaurant
magnate. A picture of Hammet ac-
companied the story. He studied
his own features for a moment
before crumpling the paper, throw-
ing it away.

Early in May at four-thirty in
the morning he drove across the
International Bridge to Nuevo
Laredo. As dawn was breaking the
Buick rolled out on the highway
and started on its long trip south
to the high mountains.

To the man who called himself
Pete Welles, it was as though a
thick miasma which had hovered
over him for many days had lifted,
leaving his mind and breathing
free and clear. He turned on the
radio. Mexican music blared from
the loudspeaker. It was exhilarat-
ing. It sounded good.

3.
The road descended from the

mountains at last, the plateau was
left behind. The last turn in the
highway was just ahead. The
Buick rounded it, coasting down
hill, and there below was Aca-
pulco. The houses were pink, yel-
low and-vanilla white; the sea was
blue, the setting sun was red. He
drove through town and checked
in at an unpretentious hotel on a

IT NEVER HAPPENED

hill overlooking the Pacific. His
room had a view of a crescent
shaped beach lined with cafes and
magnificent hotels. Caleta Beach.
Pete looked down at the warm,
white sand. It was evening, but
tomorrow the sun would rise again
and he could think of nothing he
wanted more to do than to lie on
that warm sand and forget. His
nerves were ragged; he’d been on
the run too long. He would crack
up if he didn’t get some rest. He
crossed to the dresser and studied
his reflection in the mirror.
. Except for a twitch in the left
cheek, the face he saw could have
belonged to anyone. The hair was
brown, the nose was the usual
straight nose. Scattered throughout
the town there must be hundreds of
Americans who looked like that.
He stood at the mirror, frown-
ing, undecided. South of Acapulco
was a remote village named Eman-
cipación. In the rainy season only
burros could struggle over the
primitive road, He would be safe
there until the rains had ended, but
after that? Someone would be sure
to talk about the eccentric foreigner.
The news would spread. ;
But here in this resort town he
could be just another American `
tourist. It shouldn’t be too hard to
act like one. He would have to
hole in somewhere, find a house.
A hotel, any hotel, was too exposed
and dangerous.
Suddenly he went to the door,
ran downstairs and out to the car,

83

When he returned a gun was in his
pocket, a Smith & Wesson thirty-
eight. He did not leave his room
again that night, and when he fell
into a restless sleep the revolver
was on the table by his bed.

He was lucky. The hotel pro-
prietor owned a small house in the
hills above Caleta. It was for rent
and Martin, his young son, drove
Pete up to see it. They climbed a
steep road scarred with chuckholes
and stopped before a green, heavily
padlocked gate. An old man open-
ed the gate and they drove into a
car port, parked beside an open
porch. Beyond the porch, a foot-
path ran through a garden to the
edge of a steep cliff. From there
it zigzagged down to the sea two
hundred feet below. The green
gate, Pete had noted coming
through, was strong, and the house
was surrounded on three sides by
a high wall.

“The old man came with the
house?” he asked.

Martin nodded. “Pedro. He is
gardener. Also he sleeps here on
the porch to guard. Juanita, his
wife, is cook.”

Juanita came out of the tiny
servants’ quarters before Pete went
upstairs. She was as old and with-
ered as her husband, and very deaf.

The second floor consisted of
another porch and two bedrooms.
It was a good, safe house. The
only other residence of any size
was halfway down the hill. Pete

84

took it, paying three months in
advance.

That night he stood on the. up-
stairs porch and looked through
darkness toward the sea. The elec-
tric bulb that was the porch’s only
illumination was colored a dull
orange. He turned it off.

Going back to the rail, he leaned
against it and let the quiet of the
night seep into him. Here, this
house, was where he would start
to live again. No one knew him in
Mexico. There would be no more
starting awake in the middle of
the night, no more bad dreams—

Nice, isn’t it Dick? a woman’s
voice said quietly from behind him.
So peaceful. But do you think you
really deserve peace?

It was Mary’s voice. He turned,
almost expecting to see his wife
standing there.

But of course she wasn’t. She
was dead. Murdered, according to
the police.

Mary

He had been deeply in love with
her when they had married. Hed
worked hard for eight years to
give her security and a home. So
that today, coming home unex-
pectedly, he could see a familiar
Cadillac on the drive, and hear
Bob Cunningham talking in the
living room.

He heard his partner’s voice the
instant he opened the kitchen door,

MANHUNT

+

“Damn it, Mary—I don’t want to
go! You know that. But what ex-
cuse could I give Ethel?”

He stood motionless and listened
to her more softly voiced reply. “Is
that important? Doesn’t it mean
anything to you that I'll be left
here for six months—alone with
Dick?” Silence, followed by a pene-
trating whisper. “Oh, for God’s
sake—there’s his car!”

Maybe he still loved her, in a
way. She could hurt him, certainly,
if that is any proof. He opened the
kitchen door again, and slammed
it shut. He walked into the big
front room that stretched ..the full
length of the house. Mary sat in a
window seat and Bob Cunningham
stood facing her. They both turned.

“Forget something, darling?”
Mary jumped up and came toward
him. She was blonde with a com-
plexion so clear it seemed trans-
lucent. She looked delicate and
pliable, but so does a blacksnake
whip.

“That’s right. Forgot the specifi-
cations for the new drive-in.” He
crossed to the liquor cabinet.
“Drink, Bob?”

“Why not?” His partner was a
big man, an ex-athlete who had put
on weight. He had a booming voice.

Mary frowned. “Liquor at ten in
the morning?”

He looked at her expression-
lessly, poured two drinks and hand-
ed one to Cunningham. “To you
and Ethel, and your trip.”

Bob choked on the straight whis-

IT NEVER HAPPENED

key. “Doesn’t seem right, going off
to Europe while you stay here and
do my work. Well!” He shrugged,
reaching into his pocket for an
envelope. “Here’s that power of
attorney. Thats why I came by—
to drop it off.”

He opened the envelope and
glanced at the paper it contained.
“Looks okay.”

“What’s this power of attorney
business?” Mary asked.

“Let Bob tell you.” Stairs led up
to a narrow landing where the
bedrooms were. He climbed them
as Cunningham fumblingly ex-
plained.

“Well, I won’t be here to sign
contracts and such for this new
restaurant, so now Dick can do it
for me. It’s legal and—”

Dick Hammet closed his bed-
room door and leaned against it.
Anger, too long repressed, tore
loose in him. Oddly, it was trig-
gered less by this evidence of
Mary’s cheating than by Cunning-
ham’s bungling explanation. The
man was nothing but a stupid slob.
It had been Dick’s brains and work
that had prodded the firm of Cun-
ningham & Hammet to success.
Cunningham only shared in the
profits and, it now appeared, in
the favors of Dick’s wife.

He got a bottle from his dressing
table, went into the bathroom,
poured a drink. Swallowing, he
remembered that Mary had once
called him a bathroom drinker.
Mary was right. She always was.

85

She had been right eight years
ago when, before their marriage,
_she had introduced him to Cun-
ningham and urged the two to go
into partnership. It was a good
deal, for her. Bob had just married

an enormously wealthy woman.

This business arrangement had kept
him handy. Dick knew the restau-
rant business. Shed figured he
would make out all right. He had.
Cunningham & Hammet owned
six drive-ins now.

His glass was empty. He slam-
med it against the wall. It broke
and the pieces tinkled to the floor.
Unconsciously he must have known
of this affair between his partner
and his wife for a long time, and
unconsciously he had prepared for
it. He had Cunningham’s power
of attorney and knew exactly what
he was going to do.

His headaches had always been
bad, but they were getting worse.
He had found a buyer for the
drive-ins but negotiations were
slow. A doctor told him’ that he
was suffering from a walking ner-
vous breakdown, gave him some
pills and advised a long rest. Well,
he would be taking a vacation
soon.

The chain was finally bought by
a man named Wallace for a hun-
dred and fifty thousand. Wallace
knew there was something shady
about the deal, but he also knew
that he was getting a bargain. Once
he had assured himself that the

86

sale would stand up in court, and
that any repercussions might hurt
Dick Hammet but not him, he
handed over the money.

The night for leaving California
was chosen carefully. Mary was
having dinner in Pasadena. The
house was empty when he got
home at six o'clock. He put five
thousand dollars in the wall safe
of her bedroom, went to his own
room and packed. He didn’t hear
Mary when she came in. He didn’t
know she was in the house until
she spoke.

“Going somewhere, Dick?”

She was standing in the doorway.
Behind her he could see the railing
of the balcony. Frustration rose in
him. He gagged on it, bitter,
greenish-yellow, in his throat.

“Yes, I am—permanently,” he
said. “I’ve left some money in the
safe. With your talents, and a little
help from Cunningham, you'll get
by.”

She ignored his reference to Cun-
ningham. “How much did you
leave?”

“Five thousand.”

“Five thousand,” she said
thoughtfully. “I wonder how many
thousands you’re taking with you.
And where you got it.”

Her voice was a painful, gradu-
ally increasing pressure on his
ear drums. He turned to face her.
“I sold the business. I built it, and
I’m entitled to anything that I can
get.”

“You don’t call that stealing?”

MANHUNT

He shook his head. “I figured the
same way Cunningham did when
he started sleeping with my wife.”

She winced as though he’d slap-
ped her. Then she caught hold of
his arms. “Don’t do it, Dick. You’re
making a terrible mistake. Don’t
leave me!”

“Why not?”

“Bob means nothing to me; he
never did. They'll arrest you. What
will happen to me then?”

“You may find it hard to believe,
but I don’t care. Now, shut up and
get out!”

He pushed her from the room,
knowing that he’d lied—knowing
that he did care—and locked the
door. She pounded on it, but he
paid no attention. He went on
packing—frantically.

The pounding had stopped but
she was still outside the door. He
could hear her talking, partly to
him and partly to herself. The
words came in disjointed phrases,
He tried to stop his ears.

“What can I do? What can I
do? If only you hadn’t been so
hard! They’re sure to catch you,
and it will be too late~”

He heard a far-off roar that
rapidly came nearer. Her voice
grew louder and had an hysterical
undertone.

“The police will stop you. I’m
going to call the police—!”

The roar was deafening. He un-
locked the door and ran out on the
balcony. She came back from the
stairs, held out her arms.

IT NEVER HAPPENED

“Oh, darling—please!”

He pushed her. She fell against
the flimsy railing. There was a
splintering sound. She screamed
once as she fell.

It was an accident. That’s what
he told himself as he went down
the stairs. She lay on the tiled floor,
her neck flung back at an impos-
sible angle. He looked at her, and
knew what had happened—and
somewhere, something burst...

5e

It was morning. Juanita brought
him fruit juice, and he dressed in
swimming trunks and a sports
shirt. The padlock had been re-
moved from the green gate when
he went down to the car port. He
backed out the convertible.

The road ran downhill toward
the boulevard. Halfway down was
the house he had noticed the day
before. A man ran out of it and
waved him to a stop.

“Yovre an American, aren’t
you? For God’s sake, keep your
gate locked. Last night I was
robbed for the third time in a
month!”

He was like an excited, mam-
moth baby, fat and pink and bald.
The infantile appearance was
heightened by his lack of clothes.
He was barefoot and wore only a
pair of brief white shorts. >

“Thieves everywhere! The lousy
ladrones can steal the tongue out
of your mouth!” His naked torso

87

was half-inside the car. A horn
tooted. A beer truck wanted to get
by. The bald man called, “Un mo-
mentito!” and turned back.

“Where you from?”

“Arizona. That truck’s going to
blast me off the road.” Pete ner-
vously let in the clutch.

“How long you going to be in
Acapulco?”

He stepped on the accelerator in
reply. At the foot of the hill he
turned right into the boulevard.
He left the car in a parking lot at
Caleta Beach. There was a line of
cafes on the ocean side of the lot.
He sat at a rickety table under a
palm tree, and three waitresses in
flowing skirts converged on him.

The first to reach the table was
pretty in a bosomy, broad-hipped
sort of way. “I talk you inglés,
boy,” she said, and shrieked at the
other waitresses. “Is mine! Largo
de aqui! Go ’way!”

“Black coffee and toast, please.”

“No tostados, boy. You like tor-
tillas?”

“Just coffee.”

“Okay, boy.” She left him alone
with a swarm of flies.

The mosquitos were bad, too.
He was ready to leave when the
waitress returned with a thick cup.
She put it in front of him and
sat down herself. The day was hot
and she did not use a deodorant.

“Chucha, me. .Who you, boy?”

“Pete.” He sipped the coffee.

“Pete. Is pretty name. You think
me pretty?”

88

“Gorgeous.”

“You talk me inglés so I talk
good?”

“Sometime.” He put the money
on the table and got up.

Chucha was surprised. “You no
like coffee?”

“Changed my mind,” he said,
and walked away.

Crossing the parking lot he look-
ed back. Chucha still sat at the
table. She was drinking the re-
jected coffee and staring moodily
out to sea.

Then he noticed a cafe he had
overlooked before. The walls were
of bamboo, the roof was thatched.
The interior looked dark and cool.
A sign above the entrance read
Tahiti Bar. He opened a half-door
and stepped inside. Directly ahead
was a flagged terrace. It was spot-
ted with low tables around which
only a few people lounged. Beyond
the tables was an azure cove reach-
ed by a stretch of clean, white sand.
More people were on the sand.
Surfboards and kayaks were
sprinkled over the water, and far
out he saw the sails of a white
yacht. There were no mosquitos
and no flies.

He sat as close to the beach as he
could get, and ordered toast and
coffee. Both were hot and good.
He killed time for an hour and
watched the place fill up.

A man sat down beside him. “See
you found my hangout.” It was
the baldheaded man who had been
robbed. “Bohemia,” he told the

MANHUNT

waiter, and looked at Pete. “Have
one? Better beer than we get in
the states.”

“No, thanks.” Pete braced him-
self against the questions sure to
come.

They came and he answered
them consistently. His home was in
Yuma and he expected to be in
Acapulco about three months. He
was in the trucking business. That
last, he thought, was a neat touch.

The fat man introduced himself
= as Jack Pascault. He knew every-
one in town and was a self-admit-
ted gossip. Pete listened to his
mildly ribald stories for a while,
then suddenly lost interest. His at-
tention had been caught by a girl
who was coming up the beach.
She carried a straw mat and wore
a dark blue swimming suit. She
spread the mat on the sand and
sat down not more than fifteen feet
away.

Pete had never seen the girl be-
fore, but there was something fam-
iliar about her. She was slender,
with lovely, long, brown legs. Her
features were delicate and her fair
hair, swept straight back from her
forehead, was secured by a fillet of
black ribbon.

Pascault was grinning. “Nice, isn’t
she?” he said, and Pete found that
he disliked him intensely. On the

other hand, nothing so stamps a

vacationing businessman as an
amatory interest in a pretty girl.

“Very nice. Who is she?” he
asked.

IT NEVER HAPPENED

“Karen Brewer. That’s her aunt,
the one with the musclebound
Adonis in red trunks.”

He indicated a woman who had
followed the blonde girl at a more
leisurely pace. She had a forty-year-
old face and an eighteen-year-old
body, and she wore a yellow play
suit puffed out at the hips. Her
hair was- short and unnaturally
bronze. Her hand rested on the
forearm of a sullen young man,
but with no effect of clinging. She
seemed to be steering him as
though he were a rather stupid
horse.

The young man was decorative,
but not much else. He had a deep
chest, small hips and thick, sloping
shoulders. His light, curly hair
looked as though it had been care-
fully set in the morning and ex-
pected to stay in place all day.

She dismissed him as they neared
the terrace. “You're still hungover,
Andy. Go take a nap.” The young
man scowled at her and went back
the way that he had come. The
woman saw Jack Pascault, climbed
to the table and sat down.

“Hi, folks.” Her accent placed
her as having come from Texas.
“Scotch,” she told the waiter. She
smiled at Pete. “Hello.” She had
an unexpectedly youthful and at-
tractive smile.

“Pete Welles, Fran Garvey.” Pas-
cault called the waiter back. “Make.
that two Scotches.”

“Make it three,” Pete said.

Karen Brewer came up from the

89

- beach. She stood beside her aunt.
“Do I rate a chair?”

Pete rose quickly and pulled one
out for her.

6.

Karen lay on a surfboard and
studied the man she had just met.
He was smiling up at her, his com-
pact body half-in, half-out of the
water. He was attractive, all right.
A little nervous, perhaps. He had
a funny twitch in his cheek and
seemed to be under some kind of
strain, but so are lots of men when
they first come to Acapulco. They
get cured. The sun baked the strain
out of them, the sea washed it
away.

Pete Welles. He was a widower;
that had been one of the first things
he had told her about himself. She
had filed the information for pos-
sible future references. She smiled.
It was amusing—the thought of
keeping a file on eligible males.

“It’s not polite to laugh at a
man who’s pushing you,” he told
her. “Furthermore, you're getting
lazy. Time you had a swim.”

She lay on her side, one hand in
the water. Shaking her head,—
“Too tired”—she flicked a little
water in his face.

“That’s disrespectful.” He tilted
the board, let her slide into. the
sea. His arms encircled her as she
went under the water. She let him
hold her, let him lift her up...

All morning he had been
90

troubled by a headache. He re-
membered it now, saying goodbye
to her, and was surprised to find
that it had gone. She walked
away, and he watched until she’d
disappeared.

Chucha called to him as he
crossed the parking lot. “You come
back mañana, boy? Talk me in-
glé?” He pretended not to hear.

On the way home he stopped to
lay in a supply of Scotch. Four
fifths and, for more immediate con-
sumption, an extra pint. He had

_lunch when he got back to the

house. Then he lay down for a nap.

He awoke refreshed and think-
ing of Karen Brewer, remember-
ing the curve of her full lips when
she laughed. He walked over to a
window and looked down at the
road.

A car was coming up the hill. Its
paint job was light khaki,. the off-
cial color of the Acapulco police.
He backed quickly to the center of
the room, and stood there listening
to the approaching motor. It grew
louder until it was directly below
the window—and then it passed.
The car had gone on up the hill.

The pint bottle was on his dres-
ser. He took a drink.

The bottle was empty when he
went to bed that night. About mid-
night he was roused from sleep by
the sound of a closing door. There
were footsteps in the car port down
below. He got his revolver, took
a flashlight and tiptoed down the
stairs.

MANHUNT

The moon was bright. He could
clearly see Pedro sleeping on his
cot, the handle of a machete pro-
jecting from under his pillow. No
one was in the kitchen. Moonlight
flooded the area around the dining
table. No one was on the porch.
He went to the car port.

A bicycle leaned against the
open gate. A slight figure was put-
ting something in the basket strap-
ped to the handlebars. Pete raised
the flashlight, clicked it on. The
beam fell on a boy’s frightened face.

It was Martin, his landlord’s son.

Pete let out his pent-up breath.
“Whats going on?”

Martin was frightened. “It is
my father, señor. He forget. He
leave things here in kitchen closet.
He say to me, when you finish
work, go get them. You are sleep-
ing and I don’t like waking you.
I have key.”

“Okay,” Pete said. “You get the
stuff?”

“You want to see these things
I take?”

“Of course not. Sorry I scared
you.”

“I am not scared. Good night,
senor.”

Pete watched him lock the gate
and push his bicycle down the
road. He was wide awake now,
and went into the kitchen for a
drink. He opened the closet and
felt on the-shelf for the four bottles
of Scotch he had bought that after-
noon. The bottles were gone.

He ran to the gate. Down the

IT NEVER HAPPENED

road he saw a moving shadow.
“Come back here!” he yelled.

The shadow hesitated, then kept
on moving down the hill.

“You little thief! I ought to beat
the hell out of you. Tell your father
I said so. Tell your father—!”

The shadow mingled with other
shadows and was lost. Pete went
angrily to the stairs. Pedro was sit-
ting on his cot. He spoke to the
old man.

“Tomorrow I will buy a new
padlock for the gate. You will have
one key and I the other. No one—
understand me?—absolutely no one
is to enter this house without my
permission.”

“St, señor. I understand.”

7

Jack Pascault’s lower lip pro-
jected like a segment of ripe
orange. It was late afternoon, and
he sat with Pete on a stone wall
above the bay. Below them some of
the world’s most expert swimmers
and water skiers were putting on
an exhibition. Jack paid no atten-
tion. A girl had promised to meet
him here, and had failed to keep
her date.

Pete had watched impossible
jumps, astounding acrobatics and
a graceful water ballet. Now the
feature attraction of the afternoon
was coming up. It was a man who -
started off on a single ski. Pulled
by a speed boat, he gingerly lifted
his left foot from the ski and put

gt

it in the water. He was drawn for
fifty yards like that; then, so
quickly that it was impossible to
see how it was done, he kicked the
ski away and dropped his right
foot, too. The crowd rose to ap-
plaud as he sped past, skiing on the
soles of his bare feet. Pete rose with
the others.

Jack got up, too, and stretched.
“Let’s get some beer,” he said.

They made their way through
the crowd and climbed to the club-
house. There were tables on the
veranda, and Fran Garvey was at
one of them. She tried to catch
Pete’s attention but he was pur-
posely looking the other way.

Jack caught the small by-play.
He got bottles from the bar and
drew Pete inside out of sight.
“That’s using your head. There are
times when Fran’s a little too rich
for the ordinary palate.”

“Thought she was a friend of
yours.”

“I like her. I like butter, too, but
a steady diet would harden my
arteries.” Jack sucked at his bottle.
“Got too much money, for one
thing. She spends it collecting
beautiful boy friends.”

“Such as the guy who was with
her yesterday?”

Pascault nodded. “Andy Shultz.
He’s about due to be replaced. Poor
fellow’ll be on the beach without
so much as a swan’s-down pillow
on which to lay his curly head.”

“Tough.”

“Tougher than you know. Fran

92

likes you. She’s got her eye on you
for next in line.”

“Not in the market, thanks.”
Pete drank his beer. “Where does
Karen fit into that kind of set-up?”

“She’s just visiting. And looking
for a husband, incidentally.”

Pete shrugged. “A husband
should be easy for her to find.”

“Not in Acapulco. The men here,
myself included, think in terms of
less permanent arrangements. But
Karen’s a romantic.” Pascault gave
him a knowing grin. “Given to
moonlight strolls along the beach.
Im fair. I tell you that much so
we can get off to an even start.”

Pete stiffened. “Devoted a lot of
study to her, haven’t you?”

“Why not? She’s worth a little
spade work.” Pascault finished his
bottle. “More beer?”

“No.”

“How about some Scotch?”

“No.” He said it brusquely.

“Hey!” The fat man frowned at
him, surprised. “I didn’t know you
were serious about the girl. Don’t
get sore.”

“Pm not sore. I have a headache.
For Christ’s sake, is that a crime?”

It was Pascault who was sore
now. “It’s your head. I don’t give
a damn if it falls off.”

He turned away, and Pete went
out to his car. He drove to the
Zocalo. Sitting outside a cafe he
watched the sun go down. It was
dark when the waiter brought his
check. Paying it left him short of
cash. His money, with only a small

MANHUNT

part of it converted into pesos, was
hidden in an olla hanging on his
bedroom wall. He returned to the
house, took three hundred pesos
from the olla and drove down the
hill again. Passing the parking lot
behind the Tahiti, he impulsively
turned in.

The Tahiti was primarily a
swimming club and closed at sun-
set, although the second-class cafe
next door stayed open all night.
Pete walked around to the ocean
side. A full moon lay on the hori-
zon like an ivory cue ball on a pool
table. He sat on the sand and
listened to jukebox music coming
faintly from far away.

Presently a girl walked between
him and the moon. It was Karen.
She moved slowly, and after she
had passed he could still make out
her figure on the beach. She went
to the end of it and turned back,
walking higher on the sand. When
she came near enough he saw that
she was carrying her straw mat.

She spread the mat on the edge
of the terrace and sat down. He
didn’t move, and for a full half-
minute she did not move either.
Then she raised her hand to
smooth a straying lock of hair, and
it was a gesture he had often seen
Mary make when he’d first loved
her and been watchful of the slight-
est of her gestures. Mary was dead,
but this girl—

He rose silently, and stepped
around to stand in front of her.
She looked up, startled. He caught

IT NEVER HAPPENED

her wrists, pulled her up and kissed
her on the mouth. He did not
mean to frighten or to hurt her.
She fought him savagely, and he
let her go.

“Karen,” he said, “I only—”

“What’s the matter with you? I
think you must be crazy!”

“Now, wait!” He tried to catch
her wrists again. “Wait a minute!”

But she was no longer there. She
was down near the water, running,
stumbling away from him across
the sand.

He was running after her. She
heard him and went faster. “Wait,
damn it!” he shouted. “Stop!” She
did not stop. They ran past stacked
deck chairs and piled-up beach um-
brellas. The lights of a hotel were
coming near. He saw her push in-
side.

8.

His head was pounding when
he returned to the Tahiti. She had
left her beach mat on the terrace.
He carried it to his car. He opened
the luggage compartment, tossed
in the mat and started to lower the
top again. When it was halfway
down he stopped, abruptly pushed
it up. The moon lit up the interior
of the compartment. He was
shocked by what he saw inside.

A paper bag from which the
necks of four whiskey bottles pro- *
truded. It was the Scotch he had
accused Martin of stealing, and
which he was sure he remembered

93

putting in the closet of his kitchen.
He did nothing for a count of five.

Then he carefully withdrew one
bottle, opened it with the cork-
screw which was an attachment
of his pocketknife, and took a deep,
long drink. He waited a quarter
of a minute, then lifted the bottle
to his lips again.

Pain thudded through his fore-
head at regular, short intervals. It
was blinding. He took another
drink and climbed behind the
wheel.

Footsteps approached the car.
“No work tonight, boy. Is Do-
mingo—Sunday. Is pretty, no—the
automóvil?”

It was Chucha. He didn’t look
at her. He held the bottle on his
lap.

“You got whiskey? I like whis-
key. Is more better as tequila. We
go for ride in automóvil, drink
whiskey, have good time?”

“No.”

“No? You loco. Good girl, me.”

He turned his head. He saw her
foggily, as through a reddish mist.

“Loco?”

“Oh, yes! Why we no go for
ride?”

Someone said, “Get in the car.”
It sounded like his voice.

The beach lobby was deserted
when Karen entered the hotel. Al-
ready she had recovered from the
shock that Pete had given her, and
which, now that she’d had time to

consider it, turned out not to have.

been such a great shock after all.

94

She wondered why she had re-
acted so violently. Pete Welles had
kissed her but, after all, she had
clowned around with him on the
surfboard, and he probably had
thought—

It made no difference what he
thought. Next time she saw him
she would be polite but, at first,
a little distant. What might de-
velop later would depend on how
he took the arms-length treatment.

She took the elevator to the lob-
by at street level. The wide en-
trance to the bar was on the right.
Fran was in there with her usual
crowd of free-loaders. Andy stood
on the outskirts of the group. His
eyes met Karen’s, and she quickly
turned away. She went outside and
stood under the porte-cochere, fac-
ing the boulevard.

A Buick convertible drove past.
Pete Welles was at the wheel. A
woman sat beside him, but Karen
couldn’t see her face. The convert-
ible passed under a street lamp,
went on into the darkness on the
other side.

For no reason she could under-
stand, Karen suddenly felt shaken
and alone. She went back thought-
fully into the crowded lobby of the
hotel.

The moon was no longer an
ivory cue ball. It looked more like
a shrunken lemon hung by in-
visible wires up in the sky. He lay
on sand, and the lights of Aca-
pulco glittered across water at least

MANHUNT

five miles away. He must have
circled the bay and gone to sleep
here on the beach. He had no recol-
lection of anything that had hap-
pened since he’d found the whis-
key. There was a bottle by his side.

His headache was gone, and he
felt alert and hungry. He got
lightly to his feet, brushed sand
from his clothes and looked back
at the road. The Buick was there.
His ability to drive quite normally
when he had been drinking had al-
ways amazed him. Carrying the
bottle, he walked back to the car.
The clock on the dashboard
showed ten minutes after twelve.

At twenty-five to one he parked
in front of a low, blue building
loud with dance music. He left
the convertible and went inside.
In the crowded bar he found a
vacant stool. He ordered Scotch
and asked to see a menu.

A waiter came and Pete de-
scribed the steak he wanted—very
rare. Waiting for it, he sipped his
whiskey and wondered what had
happened to Chucha. It was curi-
ous, he thought, that until this
moment he had forgotten having
been with the waitress earlier that
evening. Even now he couldn’t re-
member what they’d talked about,
if they had talked...

Q.

A man at the end of the bar was
staring at him with an odd ex-
pression. Pete recognized him:

IT NEVER HAPPENED

Andy Shultz. Andy’s expression
was more difficult to place. It was
too detached to be called hatred,
but it was deeper than the instinc-
tive dislike one human being might
feel for another at first sight. Andy
must have seen him at the Tahiti
with Fran Garvey. The damn fool
probably thought he was interested
in Fran.

The waiter served his steak. It
looked delicious, red under a thin
layer of charred black. He cut off
a corner and tasted it. Perfectly
seasoned. He started to take an-
other bite.

Then he noticed that the noisy
chatter at the bar had suddenly
been silenced. Everyone was look-
ing toward the door. Four heavily
armed policemen had come in. The
head waiter was talking to them;
he shrugged and spread his hands.
It was an expressive gesture, in-
dicating that he was helpless if the
police insisted on coming further
but that it would do no good and
that he would appreciate it if they
went away.

To Pete’s intense relief they
nodded and backed out. He took a
drink and listened to. the exited
murmur that swelled up.

A man said, “Same damn cops
stopped me.on the road a while
ago.”

The woman beside him lit a
cigarette. “What do you expe ?

“But this was a particularly
brutal murder. They say the blood

The woman’s voice fell to an
inaudible whisper. Pete stared at
his plate of meat. It was nauseating.
He pushed himself to his feet.
Andy grinned at him as he went
out.

Pete leaned against his car, in-
haling the clean night air. It had
been hot in the night club. Cigar-
ette smoke and the odor of food
must have made his sick. He
started for Acapulco, and a few
minutes later three policemen
flagged him down.

-~ It was a road block. Two police-
men remained beside it; a third
approached the Buick.

“Your name?”

Pete fumbled for his tourist per-
mit. The policeman only glanced
at it. “Norteamericano? Pass,” he
said.

The new padlock was on the
gate. He undressed quickly, took
the Smith & Wesson from its hid-
ing place and laid it on the bedside
table. He emptied the pockets of
his slacks.

Everything, as was his habit,
went into the small drawer of the
bedside table. Keys, a handkerchief,
his wallet and some change. He
tossed the slacks on the adjoining
twin bed, and emptied the breast
pockets of his shirt.

Ers and ` matches, and

ally his pocketknife. That should
not have been in the shirt pocket;

96

it was much too heavy. He put the
knife with his other belongings,
and pulled down his bedclothes.
He reached for the light.

But he didn’t click it off. He
stood with his hand on the light
switch for a moment, them turned
back to the bed. There was a stain
where his hand had touched the
sheet. It was a dark stain, reddish
brown. He looked down at his
hand. After a long while, moving
very slowly, he picked up his knife.
He pried open its long blade.

Both blade and handle were
sticky, smeared with a brown vis-
cous fluid. The knife fell as mem-
ory spurted into his mind. Memory
came back, not in a flood, but in
a thin, hard intermittent stream....

He stopped by the roadside and
opened the car door. “Come on.
End of the line.”

“Why for you stop, boy?”

“You'll see. Get out.”

She climbed from the car. The
underbrush was thick. His knife
was in the left-hand pocket of his
slacks.

“You loco, boy. What we do
here?” 7

“You'll see.” The blade was
sharp. He could feel its sharpness,
shifting the knife to his right
hand...

10;

Nightmare.

The sheets were wet with per-
spiration. He knew he’d had a ter-
rible and vivid dream but his wak-

MANHUNT

ing mind rejected the details. He
got up and went into the bathroom.
By the angle of conjoining shade
and sunlight he knew it was late.

The water in the shower was
tepid. He still felt sweaty when he
dried himself. A glass and a bottle
of whiskey were on the floor. He
poured a drink and choked it
down.

It made him sick. He carried
the bottle to the bathroom, put it
in the shower stall out of sight.

The screen door opened and
Pedro came in. “A man señor. He
says to give you this.”

Pete took the card. On one side
had been scrawled, “Party tonight.
Come on over. Please?” The last
word had been underlined. On the
other side were printed directions
for finding Fran Garvey’s house.
Pete tossed the card on his dresser.
He sat on the bed and stared at
the drawer of the bedside table.

He did not open it. Last night he
had dreamed of putting his knife
in there. It had been a confused
and frightening dream, and his
memory of it was vague. Let it stay
that way. There was something he
didn’t want to remember about the
knife.

The evening came at last. He lay
on his bed, staring through dark-
ness at the ceiling. There was a
lizard on the wall. It would stay as
lifeless as a broken twig until a
mosquito came within striking dis-
tance. Then its long tongue would
flick out and the mosquito would

IT NEVER HAPPENED

disappear. The lizard would make
a chucking sound like laughter.
Another lizard on the porch would
chuck, chuck back at him.

It takes time to learn to live with
lizards. Mexicans like them. They
say they bring good luck. But sud-
denly Pete couldn’t stand the
chucking another minute. He had
to get out. He dressed and went
down to the car port.

Fran Garvey lived in a huge
house overlooking the bay. He
drove the Buick up a steep hill and
parked among approximately thirty
other cars. It was a big and noisy
party. He could hear it through the
house, coming from somewhere on
the other side.

He entered the house, passed an
improvised bar and went out on
the terrace. The lawn was crowded
with Fran’s guests. Waiters circu-
lated among them, collecting and
refilling glasses. Beyond a swim-
ming pool, four men in black
trousers and pink silk shirts beat
energetically on a marimba. Sub-
merged lights glowed in the kidney
shaped pool. On his right was a
small guest house. He looked for
Karen but could not find her. He
walked toward the pool.

As he neared the guest house
Andy Shultz came out of it. He
passed in front of Pete and went
to speak to Jack Pascault who was
standing a few yards away. Pas-
cault looked up, and saw Pete. — 3

He frowned, said something in
an undertone to Andy. Then he

97

walked over to a middleaged.
couple at the far end of the pool.
He spoke to them and went on to
whisper to several others. Pete felt
his face grow hot. He walked
quickly toward the fat, baldheaded
man.

The first couple fell silent as he
passed. The same thing happened
` when he neared the second group.
It seemed to him that all the people
on the lawn had lowered their
voices to one insinuating funneled
whisper. Even the marimba music
was subdued. His feet slowed to a
stop. Everyone was staring at him.
He could catch no one actually
doing it, but there was a tingling
sensation up and down his spine.
He turned, retreated to the terrace,
went inside the house.

He stood at the bar, glass in
hand, and asked himself what the
hell he was doing here, at a party
where people talked about him and
where he was obviously unwel-
come. He set the glass down and
walked to the front door. Someone
called him but he didn’t answer.
He was going somewhere. Maybe
he was going home.

“You're not leaving, are you,
Pete?” a light voice asked.

He had already started down the
steps. He stopped, turned back.
Karen stood in the doorway. Light
streamed past her, outlining her
slim figure, touching her pale hair
with bronze.

She came slowly to the steps.
“Pd like to talk to you,” she said.

98

“Provided you're not... excitable,
the way you were last night.”

He smiled. “If I do get excited
I promise not to let it show.” Be-
hind Karen, he saw Andy at the
bar. Andy was watching. “Too
many people at this party. Let’s go
for a ride.”

She went with him to his car.
He helped her in and walked
around to climb behind the wheel.
But he didn’t start the motor. He
caught the clean scent of the per-
fume she was wearing. A cool
breeze carried the tinkle of mar-
imba music from the pool.

He put his arms around her and
she did not resist. But when his
kiss became demanding she pulled
away.

“They can see us from the house.”

“Who cares?”

“I do. Andy’s on the porch.”

He released her. He sat studying
her profile for a full quarter of a
minute. Then he pushed the starter
button. The motor sounded sullen
as it caught.

II,

Andy returned through the noisy
room and went into the library
at the far end. He picked up the
telephone and told the long-dis-
tance operator that he wanted to
speak to a man named Stewart
Winslow in Beverly Hills, Cali-
fornia. The operator said that she
would call him back. He pushed a
button on the desk. The door

MANHUNT

opened after a moment, and a man
in a white jacket came in.

He was young and good-looking.
His complexion was dark but his
hair had been bleached light brown
by the sun. All except one strip
across the top which was peroxide
blond. He stopped abruptly when
he saw who had rung the bell.

Andy grinned. “Get me a drink,
Eddie. Bourbon on the rocks.”

Eduardo nodded and went out.
The door slammed, and Andy
shrugged. He didn’t blame Eddie
for hating him. If the circum-
stances had been reversed he would
have been hated the young Mexi-
can. But at present he was on the
comfortable inside looking out.
Looking out and back to what he
had been in Beverly Hills less than
a year before.

Broke. Things were so tough

that hed been forced to take a-

job as night counterman in one
of the Cunningham & Hammet
drive-ins. The manager was an
easy-going sort. As long as Andy
did his work he was left pretty
much alone.

Cunningham never showed up
in the place. The only time the
going was likely to get rough was
when Hammet would unex-
pectedly make the rounds. Then
everybody had to look bright and
eager and super-efficient, particu-
larly when, as often happened, the
boss was carrying a load.

Then there was no telling what
might happen. Hammet got funny

IT NEVER HAPPENED

ideas when he was drinking. Like
the night Andy had saved him
from being run in by the cops....

Andy saw him when he parked,
and sent a car hop back to warn -
the kitchen gang. Everything was
going nice and smooth when Ham-
met came in and sat down at the
counter, playing that worn-out in-
cognito routine. The dipso thought

= that, because he didn’t know the

people on his payroll they couldn’t
possibly know him.

Andy brought the special ham-
burger that the cook had fixed, and
served it with a little flourish.
Hammet was potted, all right, but
the only way you could tell it was
by his eyes. The girl on the next
stool was talking to him, and he
was nodding and occasionally say-
ing a word or two, the way you'd
treat anybody who was trying to
start a conversation, but he didn’t
know what she was saying. He
didn’t really know that she was
there.

When it happened, it came so
fast that seconds passed before
Andy could piece it together. All
of a sudden the boss looked hard
at the girl. Then he hit her in the
face. After that he took a sip of
coffee. He went on eating his ham-
burger as though everything was
perfectly all right.

The girl sat staring at him, her
mouth open and her left eye get-
ting red. Everybody else was star-
ing at him, too. The cook came out
of the kitchen to see what was

99

going on. The girl got up and ran
to the phone booth in the corner.
She put in a dime and dialed, “O.”

Andy leaned over the counter.
“Better get out of here,” he whis-
pered. “Get out fast!”

“What are you talking about?”
There was a stupid frown on the
boss’s face.

“That girl you hit is calling the
cops.”

“I hit—?” Hammet looked at the
phone booth. “Why should I hit
her? I never even saw—”

“Don’t ask me why. You only
got a couple of minutes, Mr. Ham-
met. Id go out through the win-
dow in the men’s room if I was
you.”

Most of the crowd had vanished
before the police arrived. The cops
asked Andy what had happened.
He told them that he hadn’t seen
anything personally but that the
guy they were looking for was
probably in the men’s room. They
looked in there but the room was
empty and the window open.

The manager spoke to Andy as
he was going to work the follow-
ing night. “Sorry, fellow, but the
head office called this afternoon.
They’re cutting down expenses.
You're the last hired, so you’re the
first to go.”

Andy’s smile was humorless.
“And they tell you that hard work
and loyalty to the boss is the way
to get ahead.”

“Did he know you recognized
him?”

100

“He couldn’t help but know it.
I called him by name.”

The manager sighed. “Well,
there’s your answer. Wouldn’t sur-
prise me if we all got fired now,
one by one....”

The telephone rang. Andy
picked it up. “Bueno,” he said to
the operator. Then, “Stew? Andy
Shultz...I’m fine, but listen. Re-
member that drive-in I used to
work for? Well, one of the guys
that owned it was named Ham-
met. I was wondering—”

An excited squawking came out
of the telephone. Andy smiled.
“Yeah? ... You don’t say!... Well,
what do you know. What do you
know!” he said. 3

I2.

They called it Brewer’s Guided
Tour, and laughed because that
sounded funny. They laughed at
a lot of things that night. They
went to three night clubs, and
danced and drank champagne.
They had precisely the right
amount of champagne to impart
a glow to everything they saw and
a febrile excitement to everything
they heard. And some time after
midnight they found themselves in
the parking lot behind the Tahiti.
The cafe next to it was open, but
they passed it and pushed open the
half-door of the Tahiti, and went
inside. They sat on the terrace,
their feet resting on the sand.

MANHUNT

“Remember last night? I must

have given you a bad scare,” he
said. “Where did you go?”

“Into the hotel. And I wasn’t
really scared. I saw you again.”

He frowned. “You did?”

“You drove past.’ Their
shoulders were touching and she
felt him suddenly grow rigid.
“What is it?”

“Nothing.” He lay back on the
terrace, using his forearm as a
pillow.

“Nothing?” She turned to face
him. “Was she attractive?”

“Who?”

“The woman you were with?”

“I don’t remember any woman.
I must have been drunk.”

There was silence between them.
The tide was on the ebb. “You
know what I’m thinking?” Karen
said.

“Maybe.”

“About liquor.”

“Yeah.”

“We all drink too much. It isn’t
a method of relaxing any more.
It’s a way of life. And the next day
we don’t remember half of what
happened. Look at all the fun we
lose.”

“I couldn’t agree with you more.
That’s one of the reasons I’m going
to cut it out.”

“You are? I’m glad,” she said.

He sat up and pulled her to him.
“Tm going to tell you the truth.”
His voice was low and utterly sin-
cere. “There was a time when I
needed liquor. It blunted all the

IT NEVER HAPPENED

jagged edges, and I used to be full
of those. But I don’t need it any
more. That’s finished. See—?” He
kissed her. “Finished as of now.”

They lay back on the terrace,
and Karen’s fingers were gentle on
his cheek. A jukebox started to play
next door. She shook her head and
sat up straight.

“Know what Pd like to do? Pd
like to take a swim.”

He laughed. “There’s a little vil-
lage south of here—Emancipacién.
Wonderful beach, a few fishing
boats—that’s all. If we leave now
we can get there for breakfast.”

She looked away, said nothing
for a moment. Then quietly she
turned back. “All right.”

He got to his feet, elated. “I’ve
never been there, but I feel as
though I were going home. It’s
where I was headed when I got
side-tracked here in Acapulco.”

“TIl have to change my clothes.”

“Of course. And get a swimming
suit.” He took his money out and
counted it. “Only a hundred and
ten pesos. Have to get some more,
We'll pick up your stuff first.”

“And have you roped in by
Fran?” She put her hands on his
shoulders, pulled herself up. “Pd
never pry you loose. I'll take a taxi
and meet you here.”

“Make it next door. Don’t want
you waiting in the dark.”

They went through the half- -
door and back across the parking
lot. Pete hailed a taxi on the boule-
vard. He helped her in.

IOI

“Half an hour be time enough?”

“Plenty.”

“Something I want to tell you,
Karen.” He lowered his voice,
leaning into the cab. “I’ve had a
rough time lately. Give you the
whole story one of these days. But
I’m coming out of it now, thanks
to you. I’m very grateful.”

She leaned over and kissed him
on the lips.

The taxi made a U-turn on the
boulevard. He got in his car and
started up the hill. Coming in
sight of his house, he saw that all
the lights were burning, both up-
stairs and down. The green gate
was standing open. He parked be-
side it, walked rapidly through the
car port. He went even faster when
he heard Juanita’s high-pitched
voice. He rounded the corner near
the stairs.

Pedro sat on his cot. Juanita
stood above him, putting a bandage
on his head. There was blood on
the bandage and more blood on a
towel on the floor. The old man
saw Pete and tried to rise.

“Bandits, señor! They come
when I am sleeping. Call the
police!”

Juanita pushed him down. “Be
still, viejo verde! Three ladrones,
all giants,” she told Pete. “They hit
my brave Pedro on the head.”

“Let me see.” He examined the
cut. It was clean and not too deep.
“PII take you to the hospital.”

“No hospital! Hospitals
where people go to die!”

are

-102

Pete let it pass. The wound
wasn’t serious; Juanita could at-
tend to it. He ran upstairs and
went into his bedroom. It was a
wreck. Both beds were torn apart.
Clothes had been removed from
the dresser and the closet, and what
had not been stolen was scattered
on the floor. The broken remnants
of the olla in which his money had
been hidden were at his feet.

He thought dully that this had
been the pattern of his life. A little
happiness followed immediately by
violent disruption. He stepped on
a fragment of the olla, ground it
into powder, turned away.

13.

In the bathroom he found some-
thing the thieves had overlooked:
the bottle of whiskey he had put
in the shower stall. He took it back
to the bedroom, drew the cork.
But before he drank he went in-
side the closet, ran his fingers along
the ledge above the door. The
Smith & Wesson was in its hiding
place. He stood with the revolver
in one hand and the whiskey in
the other. He took a drink and
tried to plan what he should do.

The strong liquor ran screaming
through his blood stream, re-
awakening all the alcohol he’d had
before. He would have to meet
Karen. If he scrimped like hell -
they could still make the trip. To-
morrow he would wire for money.
Karen mustn’t be disappointed, but

MANHUNT

already he was disappointing her.
He was drinking, although he
hadn’t meant to drink. He would
have to go now, keep his date.

He drank again. The ladrones
had done a thorough job, all right.
He wished he’d been here and
that he’d had a chance to use the
thirty-eight. Damned gun wasn’t
much use now. Tossing it on the
bed, he started for the door.

He stopped, and slowly turned
around. He stared at the bedside
table, walked to it and deliberately
took hold of the handle of the
drawer. He pulled it open, looked
inside.

The drawer was empty but there
were dark brown stains on the
wood. He looked at the brown
stains, and sat down on the bed.

The bottle was half-full. He held
it for a long time to his lips.

The bottle was empty. He
opened his hand and let it fall. It
smashed on the floor but that didn’t
make much difference. The floor
was already littered with broken
trash. He looked at his watch.
More than an hour had passed. He
got up, lurched out the door.

Five minutes later the Buick
raced into the Tahiti parking lot.
He jumped from the car, ran into
the Mexican cafe. Karen wasn’t
there. He hurried through the cafe
and scanned the tables under the
palm trees on the other side. He
didn’t see her. He went back in-
side. Leaning against the bar, he
ordered Scotch.

IT NEVER HAPPENED

Someone put a fifty-centavo piece
in the jukebox. The jangling music
grated on his nerves. He slammed
his empty glass down on the bar
and told the barkeep that he
wanted another drink but that it
was too damned noisy here. He
wanted it outside.

He lost his balance going
through the door, and saved him-
self from a fall by catching at a
chair. A girl was sitting in the
chair, and he saw that it was
Karen. He sat down heavily.

“Where you been? Looked all
over. Came out here,” he said.

“I know. I spoke to you.”

“Didn’t hear you. Terrible thing
happened. House was robbed.”

She was silent.

“Well, aren’t you going to say
anything? I was robbed! Ladrones
cleaned me out.”

“Im sorry,” she said quietly.
“What did they take?”

“Everything. Took my money.
Took my knife.”

“Your what?”

“Knife!” He was shouting at her.
“Bastards stole it. Stole it out of
drawer. What’s the matter? Can’t
you understand?”

A shapely brown arm came be-
fore his eyes. Attached to it was a
woman’s hand. In the hand was a
shot glass of Scotch. He looked up
at the waitress. She smiled down
at him. .

You think me pretty, boy? We
go for ride, drink whiskey, have
good time?

103

He knocked over his chair as
he got up. He fell against the table,
spilled the Scotch. Chucha backed
away, and with each step she
changed a little. At a distance of
two yards she was no longer
Chucha. She was a waitress he had
never seen before.

Karen had risen, too. She was
staring at him. There was a beach
bag on the table. She picked it up
and walked away.

14.

Last night he had reached dead
end. He put his clothes on slowly,
his fingers nervous with the but-
tons of his shirt. Fully dressed, he
tried to reconstruct as much as he
could of what had happened. The
house had been burglarized. He
had gone back to the beach cafe
and talked to Karen. After that,
a blank. He went down to the car
port.

The Buick was parked neatly in
the center. The gate was still open,
and he saw that the padlock had
been forced. With no preliminary
warning, he began to shake. He
went into the kitchen, got a bottle
from the closet and carried it up-
stairs.

But he did not drink. He stood
with the bottle in his hand, and
after a moment put it in the bed-
room closet-on the shelf. It was
eleven-thirty, the time when Karen
was usually at the beach. He did
not feel up to facing a lot of people,

104

but there was a chance that she
might be at home. He returned to
the car port and drove to the near-
est public phone.

Fran Garvey answered. “You as
corpselike as I am?”

“Pm pretty dead. `Is
there?”

“Hear you got took last night.
Need any cash?”

“TI get by. Is Karen—?”

“She’s at Caleta. Just getting by’s
no fun. Come on over?”

“I can’t right now.”

“Look, Pete,” she said. “Let’s
stop this horsing around. I like you
—know what I mean? Come on
over, and let’s talk.”

“Sorry. ve got a lot of things to
do.”

He hung up, drove to the post
office to send a telegram, then went
straight home. A police car was
parked at the green gate. Pedro
stood beside it talking to the driver.
The driver hadn’t seen him yet,
and Pete slammed on the brakes.
His hands grew wet with perspira-
tion as he tried desperately to think.
His mind was frozen. He needed a
drink to thaw it, start it function-
ing again...

Once when he was eight years
old he had been awakened by the
soft click of a closing latch. He was
lying on the couch in the living
room of his parents’ house. His
father was asleep in the big chair
across the room. He could see his
father, and the bottle on the floor
beside him, by the light of a street

Karen

MANHUNT

lamp through the window. His
mother—

His mother was in the room, too.
It was she who had clicked the
latch shut and awakened him. She
was not alone.

“Dead to the world,” he heard
her whisper. “Didn’t I tell you,
honey? Didn’t I tell you it’d be
okay?”

The shadow of a man, a stranger
with his hat on, showed against
the dimly lighted window. “I ain’t
so sure. Maybe we better—”

“He’s passed out, hon. Nothing
to be scared of. Come on.”

“How about the kid?”

“Slept right through an earth-
quake once. Door’s over here, hon.
Anyhow, the kid’s too young to
know—”

He was not too young. He lay
on the couch after they had gone
into the bedroom, shivering. He
stared through down-pressing
gloom, telling himself it hadn’t
happened, that what he’d seen and
heard had been a dream. Across
the room his father muttered in his
sleep. The bottle beside him re-
flected the light from the street.

He got out of bed, tiptoed to the
big chair. When he returned he
had the bottle. It was sherry. He
lay in bed and sucked the strong,
sweet wine. It made him warm and
comfortable. His body was so light
it seemed- to float. He giggled
quietly.

In the morning everything was
as it had been before. His mother

IT NEVER HAPPENED

was in the kitchen, his father in
the bathroom. The bad things he
had dreamed had been just that,
parts of a bad dream. Everything
was exactly as it had always been
except that under his bedclothes
he found an empty sherry bottle.

He got rid of that by putting it
in the trash. Then the memory of
it, too, assumed a misty quality. It
had never happened...

Pete started the convertible and
ran it into the car port. He
climbed out, nodded stiffly to the
police lieutenant on the porch.
“Just a minute, please.” He went
upstairs. When he came back he
was smiling and at ease.

“Sorry to keep you waiting.”

“Mr. Welles, my name is Gomez.
I must ask you a few questions.”

“Sit down, Lieutenant.”

Gomez sat on the far side of the
table. He was about thirty, slender
and with thin hands. “I have come
to inquire why you did not report
the robbery of last night.”

Pete took a chair opposite him.
“How did you hear about it?”

“One learns these things. Is it
true your house was robbed?”

“Its true. My gardener—”

“Pedro was asleep when these
men came. His identification would
be worthless. His wife describes
ten giants. And you?”

“They’d cleared out by the time
I got home.”

“What did they steal?”

“A little money,” Pete said.
“Some clothes. That’s all.”

105

“How much money?”

“Approximately five
pesos. Not a great deal.”

The policeman shrugged. ‘Not
to you, perhaps. To many of my
countrymen it represents two
months hard work. This money
was in pesos?”

“All pesos. Why?”

“A man was arrested this
morning,” Gomez said. “A known
thief. In his possession we found
money. Hundred and five-hundred
dollar United States bills. But that,
of course, could not be yours.”

There was only the slightest hesi-
tation before Pete shook his head.
“Afraid not.”

Gomez produced a manila en-
velope. He held it upside down
above the table. A pocket knife
dropped out. “Did you ever see
- this before?”

Pete quietly said, “No.”

Without touching the knife the
policeman scooped it back into the
envelope. He got up briskly. “I

hundred

thank you for your help.” He-

started for the car port, stopped,
turned back.

“It now occurs to me that there
is one thing more. It is in connec-
tion with the murder of a waitress.”

“Yes?”

“Road blocks were established
immediately after the body was
discovered. All cars were stopped
and their license numbers taken.
One of them had an Arizona li-
cense, as yours does. I do not have
the list—”

106

“As far as I know,” Pete said,
“mine is the only Arizona car in
town. And I was stopped by a road
block.”

Gomez made a little bow. “You
save me the trouble of a second
visit. Where had you beén before
you were stopped?”

“Some night club. Couldn’t tell
you its name. A blue building on
the other side of town—”

“I know it well. How long had
you been there?”

Pete frowned. “Quite some time.
Long enough to order and eat din-
ner. This tied up in some way
with that knife?”

“Who knows? The knife was
found in the pocket of the thief.
If the blood on it is of the same
type as that of the young woman
—then we have learned a little
something, yes? Also there may be `
fingerprints.” Gomez bowed again.
“Muchas gracias.”

“Por nada.” Pete watched him
walk toward his car, hoping that
the policeman would not look back.
He was breathing heavily, and was
in no condition to answer further
questions. A shadow fell across the
road. He looked up. A dark cloud
had obscured the sun. Far away to
the west, the sky was black. There
was a rumble of distant thunder.
The rainy season had begun.

15.

The rain fell almost vertically at
first, but at half-past two the wind

MANHUNT

rose and the heavy drops came
slanting out of the Pacific and
across Acapulco Bay from the
southwest. The zócalo at three
o'clock was an island in the mid-
dle of a lake. There were few cars
on the streets. Pete jumped from
the Buick and ran into a cafe. He
called Karen from the telephone on
the bar. It was the fourth time he
had called.

A servant answered. “The señ-
orita is no here.”

“Will she be there for dinner?”

“I don’t know. Tonight is din-
ner party at the house of Sefor
Pascault. You talk with the señ-
ora?”

He banged the telephone into its
cradle. Two American women
were sitting near him at the bar.
As he walked toward the door, one
of them let her handbag slip down
on the floor. Pete stopped, looked
at the bag and at the woman. Then
he deliberately brushed it aside
with his foot and went out in the
rain.

He walked to the boulevard, en-
tered a small cantina and ordered
Scotch. “Bring the bottle.” An hour
later, he was wandering up and
down the sidewalk. His clothes
were soaked and he couldn’t find
his car. He stopped looking after
a while, went into a grocery store
and used the telephone.

He opened his eyes on a world
of whispers that he could almost,
but not quite understand. Wind
and rain beat against the window.

IT NEVER HAPPENED

It was night. Getting up, he felt
along the wall until he found a
light switch, flicked it on.

He was naked and in a strange,
elaborately furnished room.
Women’s clothes were scattered
about. He found his own clothes
and put them on.

A woman’s slip was lying across
a chair. He finished buttoning his
shirt, not taking his eyes off the
undergarment. He picked it up,
methodically twisted it into a nylon
rope. He looked at his watch be-
fore he went out into the storm. It
was twenty after seven.

Passing the kidney-shaped pool,
the wind blew him to a stop. He
had to take shelter behind a palm.
It was then that he realized that
he was still holding the slip. He
had meant, he thought, to leave
it on the chair.

Thirty yards away a light flashed
on. He looked through a window,
and saw the woman. She came to
the window, peered out, and dis-
appeared. Lightning flashed as he
took a forward step—and he saw
with no particular surprise that he
had left the palm tree far behind.
He was crossing the terrace; french
windows were directly ahead.
There was a crack of thunder as
he pushed them open and went in.

She was in the library. She was
reading, and her back was turned.
He crossed the room and raised
the twisted slip. A rug muffled
any sound he might have made. He
took the final, cautious step—

107

And stopped, knowing with sud-
den certainty that he was being
watched. He looked up. A young
man with blondined hair and a
white jacket stood in an open door-
way.

“You want something, sefor?”

Pete shook his head.

“On your feet again?” The
woman looked over her shoulder,
put down her magazine. “Eddie,
get us a drink.”

The white jacketed young man
backed out reluctantly.

She chuckled. “Still carrying a
load, aren’t you? Thought you’d
have slept it off by now.”

“How did I get here?”

“You telephoned me. Anyway, I
got the call. I picked you up in the
zócalo. Passed up a dinner date to
do it, too. Hey—!” she said. “You're
twisting hell out of my slip.”

He looked down at his hands
and saw the nylon rope. He threw
- it in her lap. The blond Mexican
came back with a loaded tray. He
left immediately, and the woman
mixed two drinks. She offered one
to Pete. He shook his head.

“Go on. You picked me up.
What happened after that?”

She grinned. “Forgotten? Gal-
lantry’s certainly not your strong
point, dear.” Still grinning, she got
up and strolled toward him. “This
storm will wear itself out by morn-
ing. You might as well stay here.
Take Andy’s house.” She pressed
against him, put her arms around
his neck. “He’s moving out.”

108

“Pm going now.” He pushed her
away.

She looked uncertainly into his
eyes. For an instant she seemed
puzzled. Then she gasped. “Yes,”
she said quickly. “You get out of
here!”

He turned and walked out of
the room.

The young Mexican was stand-
ing within two feet of the front
door. He made no move to open
it. Pete did that himself. Until the
door had been firmly closed behind
him he felt the servant’s eyes pen-
etratingly on his back.

Rain stung his face as he fol-
lowed the driveway to the gate. On
the boulevard he hailed a taxi. His
car was where he had parked it in
the afternoon.

He walked past the car and into
the cantina where he had been
earlier. He had two quick drinks
and used the telephone.

16,

Karen caught Jack Pascault’s sig-
nal. She broke away from the peo-
ple she was talking to and went
toward him.

“It’s that weird friend of yours,
Pete Welles.” He indicated the
phone.

“Thanks.” Frowning, she crossed
to it and picked it up. “Yes?”

“That’s impossible,” she said, a -
moment later. “I can’t just leave—”
She lowered her voice. “That’s an
odd way of putting it. Why so

MANHUNT

melodramatic?” She shrugged, pres-
ently. “Oh, all right—if you insist.”

She hung up. No one was look-
ing at her. She got her raincoat, let
herself out and waited on the
porch. The storm had grown more
violent, and she wondered if she
were doing the right thing. Right
thing or not, she was doing what
she had to do. Something in Pete’s
voice had told her that he needed
help.

The headlights of a car came up
the road. She ran out and climbed
into the Buick. The windshield was
a solid sheet of rain.

“Know someplace where it’s
dry?” she asked. “Let’s go there
fast.”

He didn’t look at her. “We're
going home.” The Buick jumped
ahead. He drove carefully and stop-
ped before a gate. An old man
came running to prop it open. Pete
drove into a car port.

“Wait here,” he said. He left the
car and spoke in an undertone to
the servant. Karen moved over on
the seat.

“Tell Juanita to bring two break-
fasts in the morning,” she heard
Pete saying. “You sleep in your
own quarters tonight.”

He returned to the car. “Come
on.” Karen got out and found her-
self standing on an open, unpro-
tected porch. The wind had torn
the awning into shreds. He guided
her to a partly sheltered stairway.

“Up here.”

“Let’s get one thing straight,”

IT NEVER HAPPENED

she told him. “About those break-
fasts—”

He wasn’t listening. “Upstairs,
my dear.” He took her by the shoul-
ders, turned her to face the steps.

She climbed reluctantly. She had
the feeling that, if she'd refused, he
would have forced her to do it any-
way. He seemed sober, but there
was something wrong. The awning
on the upstairs porch was still in-
tact, bulging in like a full sail.
Wind and rain spilled through at
the corners. He steered her to a
door. It banged open when he
turned the knob. He steadied her
through the doorway and pushed
the door shut. She heard him grope
along the wall.

Light flashed on, disclosing a
bedroom with twin beds. It had
the look of a room not currently
in use. Karen leaned against the
wall, raincoat dripping, hair tum-
bled over her forehead.

He touched her hair. “You're
wet, Mary. I'll get a towel.”

“Oh, that’s all right—”

“It’s not. I must take care of
you,” he said.

He went into a bathroom, came
back with a towel. She let him
unzip the raincoat, slip it off. She
sat on one of the beds and dried
her hair. He stood above her, silent
and motionless, She put the towel
aside, smiled up at him. The smile
faded. Panic gripped her like a
steel claw when she saw his face.

Before she could speak, a gust of
wind tore the awning loose out on

109

the porch. Its wooden frame
crashed through a nearby window.
There was a tinkling fall of glass.

He said softly, “It was in the
other bedroom, Mary. We're safe.
Nothing can hurt us here.”

She was still staring at his face.
Something had happened to it. It
seemed shrunken and had turned
a leaden gray—and it was unnat-
_ urally calm, expressionless. She saw
all this before she reacted to the
name that he had called her.

“Who is Mary?” She got up ner-
vously. “Is this a joke of some
kind? I don’t think it’s funny.
Frankly, I don’t understand—”

He smiled, but it was less smile
than mechanical grimace. “Of
course you don’t.” He came toward
her slowly. “You're tired. PI ex-
plain it later. After you’ve rested
for a while.”

“I don’t want to rest! I want to
get out of here!” She backed away,
between the beds. “I’m not Mary,
Pete. I’m Karen. Please don’t
touch me. Please—!”

His hands closed on her arms.
His lifeless face swooped down on
her. It was the only thing that she
could see.

“Don’t look at me like that!” he
muttered. “For your own sake—
don’t!”

“I won't. I promise.” She looked
over his shoulder. She turned her
eyes anywhere except straight
ahead.

His hands relaxed a little. “You're
shivering, dear.”

TIO

“I’m cold. Pm very cold. Get me
—get me a blanket.”

He stripped the cover from a bed.
Under the cover there was nothing
but a mattress. He looked at the
mattress as though he didn’t under-
stand. “No blankets here,” he said.

“Then get me one. Get some-
thing. Don’t you see how cold I
am?”

He studied her. The pupils in
his eyes had shrunk to mesmeriz-
ing points. “I couldn’t do that.” His
voice was high and crafty. “You
might go away.”

“Why should I?” She forced a
smile. She willed her hand to
reach out and touch his.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t
know why you went away before.
Don’t make me look for you again.
I'd find you, Mary. You know
that.”

She nodded. “Yes. Now please
get me a coat.”

“All right.” He raised her hand
and kissed it. “There’s nothing to
be afraid of any more. You’ve had
a hard time, but you're home.”
Again his lips made that mechan-
ical grimace. “Pll get my bathrobe.
It’s in the other room.”

17.

Wind plastered him against the
wall as he made his way along the
porch. He left the door of his bed-
room open. Rain came through it
and through the broken window.
He turned on the light.

MANHUNT

The bathrobe was in his closet.
There was a bottle of whiskey on
the shelf. He got a -glass and
poured a drink. He was raising the
glass when all the lights went out.

The voice spoke to him from the
darkness. For why you kill me,
boy?

“Go away,” he said aloud.

You talk me pretty. You say we
go for ride.

“Go away. Go away!”

I no do nothings, boy. For why
Pm dead?

“Mary!” he shouted, and ran out
on the porch.

The other bedroom door was
open. The lights flashed on for an
instant as he ran in. Just long
enough for him to see that there
was no one in the room. He stum-
bled down the stairs. He got in
the Buick, backed up and raced
downhill.

The lights gave him a wide ra-
dius for searching. Halfway to Pas-
cault’s house, he thought he saw
her running far ahead. The con-
vertible’s reckless speed increased.
It hit a chuckhole, bounced, and
something cracked. The side of the
road moved over in slow motion.
It seemed minutes between the
time when he saw the concrete wall
and knew that he was going to
crash, and the time when he actu-
ally did.

Consciousness returned slowly.
He thought at first that he had
gone to sleep one night and awak-
ened on another, entirely different

IT NEVER HAPPENED

period of darkness. He did not
know where he was or in what
way this particular night was dif-
ferent. It came back to him in
snatches.

The storm had passed. Trees
dripped wetness but otherwise the.
night was still. He rested a few
minutes before climbing out. Re-
flected light burned steadily in the
sky. The city’s generator had been
repaired. As he climbed back to-
ward his house a taxi jolted past.
It was headed for the boulevard.
Then he saw lights ahead, and saw
a shadow cross the window of his
second bedroom. He started to run.
She hadn’t left him, after all.

He ran through the gate and up
the stairs. He started calling from
the bottom step. His heart was
pounding when he reached the top.
He had to lean for an instant
against the wall.

A hard object jabbed him in the
back. “It’s a gun,” a man said.
“Walk ahead of me into the bed-
room, Hammet. Make it slow.”

He looked back over his shoulder
as he walked to the second bed-
room. The man was tall and hand-
some with light curly hair. He had
seen him before. Vaguely he even
remembered his name.

Te was Andy 54-4
Andy Shultz.

He wore a blue shirt open at the
neck, sandals and beige slacks, He
held the gun in his right hand,
more relaxed now than he had ©

been at first, and sat on the bed —

III

something.

where Karen had sat earlier that
night,

Karen? Dick Hammet frowned.
Mary? He wasn’t sure. There were
a lot of things about which he was
confused. On the floor between
them was a bottle and two glasses.
There wasn’t much left in the bot-
tle. That was all right; there was
another one downstairs. He picked
it up.

“Drink?”

Andy nodded. “But take it easy.”
He waited until both drinks were
poured. “So about it, Hammet?
Let’s get this over with.”

“Let’s do that.” He listened to
his own voice, surprised that it
should sound so high and thin.

“Fifty thousand. I could ask for
more and get it, but I’d rather play
it safe. Give me the fifty and you
won’t see me again.”

He was silent, thinking. The rain
had stopped. It would be pleasant
in the morning, in Emancipación.

Andy was talking again. He
seemed angry. “. . . pay attention
or you'll force me to get tough.
You want me to tell the cops your
right name, and what happened to
your wife?”

Dislike for the handsome man
was growing in him rapidly. “Have
you noticed how still it is after the
rain

“Oh, for God’s sake—”

“It’s more than still. It’s death-
like. The bottle was beside him on
the floor. His right hand closed
around its neck.

It2

“Okay, okay.” Andy leaned for-
ward. He sat on the edge of the
bed, the gun held negligently.
“Come off it, will you? Now listen.
I’m going to tell—”

Maybe he didn’t realize what
Dick was doing. Maybe he thought
that Dick was only going to pour
another drink. The bottle splint-
ered over his head before he fin-
ished the sentence. He continued
leaning forward for a moment be-
fore crumpling to the floor.

18.

The sunshine streaming through
the window was golden bright.
There was a churchbell ringing and
music was playing somewhere, as
it always was. The bottle on the
bedside table was still half-full, and
he was warm and comfortable. He
swung his feet to the floor and
wondered why his Smith & Wesson
was lying beside the bottle. He did
not remember having put it there.
He didn’t need a gun. The night’s
bad dreams had ended with the
night, and it was day.

It was a day like any other day.
Downstairs he could hear Juanita
in the kitchen. The lizard was on
the wall again and chuckling. Mex-
icans say that lizards bring good
luck.

“Wish me luck,” he said aloud.
“Wish Karen and me the best of
luck.”

The lizard shot its long tongue
out and wished him luck.

MANHUNT

Nothing had happened. Every-
thing was as it had been before,
would always be. Juanita would
bring up Karen’s breakfast pretty
soon, and then bring his. He would
carry his tray to Karen’s room.
They would have breakfast to-
gether. Afterwards they would
drive south to Emancipación. He
hoped the road wouldn’t be too
bad after the storm. If there had
been a storm.

Juanita was coming up the stairs.
He must remember to leave her
a little something extra when they
went. For her and Pedro. He could
hear her on the porch now, plod-

ding toward Karen’s bedroom. She
was opening the door.

The car needed a grease job, but
that wouldn’t take too long. They
ought to make Emancipación in
time for lunch. Why had he put
the revolver on the bedside table?
He picked it up. He was looking `
at it when Juanita screamed.

A few seconds. later her con-
tinued screams were drowned out
by a loud explosion. He heard it
only faintly. It was as though a
door had been closed in a remote
section of the house. His body was
so light. It seemed to him that he
was floating even as he fell.

i

Tapped PS | Trapped

Lawrence Comiskey, 50, was arrested in New Orleans for bookmaking. Detec-
tives said Comiskey had an amplifier at his address that blared racing odds into
six illegally tapped telephones in establishments that were accepting bets. But
officers had no trouble finding him. One of the lines he tapped was inad-
vertently connected with police headquarters,

Paala Job

Luis Eduardo Shelly, serving seven years for counterfeiting, got eight more
years added to his sentence in Mexico City’s National Penitentiary for a little
sideline work in his cell. Officials said he had been running off bills on a port-
able press and selling them to departing prisoners.

Wil, Have You?

Classification tests are given new prisoners at the Iowa State Penitentiary at
Fort Madison. The tests include the question: “Have you ever felt the urge

to commit a crime?”

IT NEVER HAPPENED

113

ENNER dialed the number at
his usual speed, not faster, not
slower. His heart was beating nor-
mally. His eyes hurt a little, pinch-

BY
ARNOLD ENGLISH

ng corners somchow, but
that was the only strain.

“Hello? I’ve just killed my wife.
Send a man out here.”

The voice on the other end (a
desk man whose name he didn’t
know) said calmly, “Yes, sir, of
course. And the name and address,

ing at the

KILLER COP

Things were hot enough in town—what with all the editorials about police
brutality, And then a hero cop like Penner had to beat his wife to death...

114

Like a store clerk asking where
to make a delivery! Penner almost
smiled.

“Robert Penner, 1218 Locket
Drive. I,” he paused, “I’m attached
to the 30th precinct.”

The desk man said only, “We'll
have a man right out.”

Penner nodded uselessly and
hung up. He knew what would
happen now. The Signal 32 would
be passed to a nearby squad car,
and a couple of cops would come
right over. He had answered plenty
of calls like that.

In his left hand he still carried
the nightstick, red-tipped now. The
uniform wasn’t stained, as he saw,
looking down at it in sudden con-
cern.

Outside, softly, a car pulled up.
Penner looked thankfully at the
door. He hadn’t known the tension
in him that seemed to dribble out
of his body as he heard firm steps
up the drive followed by gentle
knocking at the door. He opened
almost gratefully.

The cop had retreated to one side
after knocking, of course, just in
case the self-admitted killer was
crazy enough to try for another
victim; but when Penner stood in
the doorway, hands outstretched,
the cop loomed up large.

The newcomer asked, surprised,
“What the hell are you doing...
Penner? -You?”

“That’s right, Fred. Tell your
partner to come in, too.”

Fred turned and signalled with

KILLER COP

a hand to the blue uniformed man
back of the wheel of the white-and-
green police car. It was a cool clear
night, and a _ wafer-thin moon
seemed to follow the second cop
as he approached quickly.

“What’s the story?”

“My wife. Magda. She’s dead.”

Fred Garfein. glanced down at
the nightstick. He grew rigid and,
oddly enough, the tips of his ears
reddened. -=

“Inside.” :

Penner looked surprised at the
tone of voice, but turned and led
the way into the hall. When the
door was slammed shut back of
him, he turned.

“Keep your gun on him,” Gar-
fein told his partner. “Be right
back.”

Fred Garfein’s big boots clumped
into the other room, the living
room. The other cop, a young guy,
drew out his gun and looked Pen-
ner up and down for signs of gun-
bulges. Finally he nodded and
rested his own gun almost negli-
gently in a hand.

Penner ran his tongue over dry
lips. “Let’s get it over with. I just
want to lay down someplace. I’m
tired.” No reaction. Penner looked
at the youngster’s firm chin and
narrowed eyes. “Your name’s Crisp,
isn’t it? I remember hearing the
captain talk about you. Joe ae
that’s right.”

Crisp said nothing, but brought:
up the gun as Penner ducked a
hand to his uniform.

115

“Just going to prove I’m not car-
rying my gun.” And he added fool-
ishly. “You should’ve searched me
before this.”

He sounded angry about it.
From the living room came the

sound of a phone receiver being set `

back on its cradle, and heavy steps
announced Garfein’s return. His
eyes were shaded with faint worry.
He talked to Crisp.

“It’s a mess. Ramsey’s coming
down in person.”

“The captain?” Penner’s hands
went automatically to his uniform,
open at the throat, then he put
them down. He had already set
down the nightstick on the small
table nearby.

“Why can’t we get it over with
by ourselves? Take me downtown
and book me.”

Garfein didn’t answer, but talked
to Crisp, instead.

“Trouble is,’ he said heavily,
“you know the way the newspapers
been riding us lately. All cops are
sadists, that kind of guck. You can
see how this is going to look in the
papers: cop bashes in wife’s head
with his nightstick.”

Crisp, eyes always on Robert
Penner, nodded slowly. They were
light eyes, blue.

Penner was out of it, of course.
Whatever the papers said about
cops in general, that couldn’t be
any of his business from now on.
He coughed, cleared his throat.

“Td like a glass of water.”

He wasn’t thirsty at all, but he

116

knew a grim pleasure in seeing
Garfein turn and clump into the
kitchen for it.

A faint smile touched his lips
when Garfein, coming back, was
suddenly attracted by a small table
and what lay under its glass cover-
ing. The cop stared and moved his

lips in a slow count, then looked

up almost awed.

“Christ Almighty! I forgot about
the citations.”

“What’s that,
asked, gun still up.

“Five citations for bravery here.
All of ’em handed out by the cap-
tain himself, I remember.”

“This is going to make a big
stink.”

Garfein handed over the water
glass, wet on the outside as well,
and wiped his hand with a dirty
handkerchief. Penner waited for
the clouded water to clear before
drinking up. His hands were
steady.

Garfein talked to Crisp as he
moved around, and Crisp an-
swered. Nobody spoke to Penner.

The sound of a television set
warmed on in a nearby house,
came through to them. A singing
commercial. A weather broadcast.
Every word was clear.

Garfein drew a deep breath at
the sound of a car approaching out-
side and slowly parking. Crisp ran
a forefinger under his collar. Only
Penner didn’t seem to care, staring
into space.

“The captain,” Crisp said.

Fred?” Crisp

MANHUNT

Setting down the drinking glass
on a nearby table napkin, so as
not to leave a ring, Penner looked
up wearily at the door. It opened
so quickly that he was caught by
surprise all the same. For a second
or so, Captain Ramsey was sil-
houetted against the darkness cut
by a slice of moon in the doorway
at right of his head. Then he
closed the door back of him.

He turned to Garfein. “Where
is it?”

“Living room, captain.”

Ramsey grunted and walked in;
like many heavy men, he walked
slowly. Penner felt moisture on the
palms of his hands but didn’t want
to wipe them as it meant drawing
young Crisp’s gun.

Ramsey came back. He took off
his hat and sailed it onto a peg on
the clothes tree.

“You son of a gun, Penner, I
could kill you!”

Penner was so startled at being
spoken to that he drew a loud
breath that was almost a whine.

“With my own hands I could
kill you!” Instead, Ramsey patted
his stomach furiously, then a little
more slowly. His voice became
more reasonable. “What hap-
pened?”

Nobody had asked him yet, but
he hadn’t expected the question so
soon. He shrugged. Ramsey’s eyes
narrowed in renewed anger. Pen-
ner cleared his throat.

“I don’t know, Captain, honestly.
I got home and Magda, my wife,

KILLER COP

began to argue with me. You know
the way it is between man and wife
sometimes, Captain.”

Ramsey jerked his bullet bead
toward the living room. “Not that
way.”

“Well, she started yelling at me
about how I should give up the
cops. It seems she’s got a brother
in the real estate business and he’s
doing good. She wanted me to go
into it, too.”

Heca hardly rèmember the
argument. He couldn’t even recall
Magda’s face or voice. He was close
to swaying where he stood.

“So you let her have it with the
nightstick,” Ramsey said softly.
“Why?”

“I don’t know, Captain. It’s just
one of those things you do. For
years I’ve had it drilled into me to
keep the peace with my nightstick.
Keep the peace, keep the peace,
there’s more law at the end of a
nightstick .. . you know the way
that goes. And there was Magda
yelling at me, screaming in my
ears so I couldn’t hardly think any
more.”

“Wait till the newspapers get
hold of this.” Ramsey took a stiff
chair. Again a hand tapped his
stomach. “They’re after my skin
and if they get it, they'll get drunk
with power and if the next captain
doesn’t kiss a reporter's feet they'll
go after him, too.”

He drew in his breath sharply,
as if in pain.

“They want us to stop using

117

nightsticks on the beat. They don’t
know that nightsticks on cops have
prevented God knows how many
crimes because a lot of punks know
that cops have got ’em. They’re
even saying cops ought to be off
Civil Service because cops are so
brutal.”

He put up a hand to shade his
eyes. Suddenly he smashed the
hand down hard on his lap.

“They want to aggravate cops so
that morons will have what to read
in the papers every morning. That’s
what they want. And you, Penn,
you do a thing like this and you
help the newspapers. Some bright
reporter’s going to win himself an
award out of this story, I wouldn’t
be a bit surprised.”

His eyes narrowed as Crisp
glanced toward the living room.
“I know she’s dead, fella,” he said
softly. “It’s been rougher on her.”

The television set next door was
turned slightly louder to a quiz
program. Outside a horn blared.
Somebody played chromatic scales
on a piano. An ice cream vendor’s
truck stopped nearby, its presence
announced by tinkling bells. Voices
of children grew louder, then
lower. The television set was low-
ered in volume; apparently there
was a quarrel next door about how
loudly it should be turned on.

The normality of it all caught
at Penner more than anything else
that had happened so far, since he
had done it to Magda. He looked
around wistfully, eyes lingering on

118

every piece of hall furniture as if
he was memorizing its position.

“We take him downtown,”
Ramsey said heavily. “We finger-
print him, put him on the line-up,
maybe the PBA gets him a lawyer
—and the papers start to scream for
our heads.”

He rose, hands behind his back.
Garfein, wide-eyed, stared at him.

“For all I know,” Ramsey said,
“this could spark the governor into
signing some crazy law to get at
every cop in the state. The gover-
nor’s no friend of ours.”

Ramsey fumbled in his pockets
for a cigar, drew it out of the
cellophane, looked at it sourly and
put it away.

“On this man’s police force,” he
said finally, “it’s a rough thing to
get promoted. You gotta make de-
cisions and, come right down to it,
you're as smart as the guys below
you and no more.”

He would probably never again
make such a remark in the presence

of two subordinates. Garfein
looked embarrassed. Crisp
shrugged.

Ramsey paused. “There’s a way
out of it, one way.”

Garfein, who was sweating, said,
“Tell us what it is, Captain.”

“It means that we’d all be taking
a hell of a chance,” Ramsey said.
“But I want to remind you two
again, that we can’t afford to let
it get in the papers that a hero cop,
with five citations for bravery,
killed his wife with a nightstick

MANHUNT

because he got so used to being a
hard guy on the beat.”

“Sure, Captain, we know,” Crisp
said, and flushed when Ramsey
looked sourly at him.

Ramsey said a little more sharply,
“Garfein, get a sheet of paper and
bring it here. Then go into the next
room. Close the windows and turn
down the blinds, then mess up the
room, kick the furniture, knock
things upside down, throw things
on the floor.”

Garfein, after a pause, nodded
slowly. His eyes looked hurt.

Seeing it, Ramsey said with sur-
prising gentleness, “Give me a bet-
ter suggestion, Fred, and TIl take
it.” Garfein looked away. Ramsey
nodded firmly. “Hop to it. And
when you get finished with the liv-
ing room, go into the bedroom and
do the same thing. You’ve got
gloves with you?”

“Sure thing, Captain.”

He stumbled off, first to bring
back a clean sheet of lined white
paper and a ball point pen, all of
which he set down on the small
table.

Ramsey looked up at Penner. “Sit
down there and write out your
resignation.”

“My resignation?” Penner’s
hands-trembled out of tiredness. He
tried to force his mind to think,
but nothing happened.

“Listen to me, boy.” Ramsey kept
his temper. “You are the luckiest
son-of-a-gun cop I ever heard of.
I’m not going to have a lot of good

KILLER COP

men loused up when this hits the
papers. Instead, Pm going to take
your resignation. Garfein will make
the house look like burglars came
in and while they were at it, they
killed your wife. You'll say you
came home from a hard day’s work
and found her dead. Kapeesh?”

“Sure, sure.”

“Get busy and start writing.
You're resigning out of grief. You
can’t carry on. Put tomorrow’s date
on it.”

Penner sat down on the hard-
backed chair and adjusted the pa-
per so that the top-left was in-
clined to his left. He wrote slowly.
Once he looked up to see young
Crisp’s eyes on him, then on Ram-
sey.

“Captain, this is all wrong! We
can’t let ourselves do this.”

Penner wrote listlessly. His eyes
were half-shut and he paused at
the end of every word,

From the next room, Garfein be-
gan his job of destruction. The
sounds rose in tempo. With each
rise, Penner sighed.

“I don’t get this.” Crisp’s jaw was
set almost mutinously. Penner saw
his fingers stiffen on the gun, and
looked away. He wasn’t tempted
to move or to call out.

Ramsey, who saw everything,
had seen this, too. “You’re liable
to shoot somebody with that brand-
new gun of yours, Crisp. How
about handing it over to me if you
can’t do what you're told?”

Crisp walked across the room

119

and handed over the gun with butt
foremost. Ramsey sniffed down at
it and dropped it into a suit pocket.
then swivelled around to Penner.

“Finished?”

Garfein had proceeded to the
living room and the wrecking
sounds were more faint.

“When we get back downtown,”
Ramsey told Crisp, “you'll get hold
of the desk man who took the mes-
sage that Penner phoned in. Have
him see me. And take Penner’s
nightstick with you. Wrap it up in
newspapers and get rid of it.” He
put up a hand to his throat and
turned to Penner. “I’m thirsty. Get
me some water.”

“Of course, Captain. Sure.” Pen-
ner rose and walked tiredly to-
ward the kitchen. Crisp started
out to call something, but smoth-
ered it. There was a a shot and
pain seared Penner’s back. He
turned slowly, and sank to the floor.

Ramsey stood over him, looking
down. “Sorry, fella.” He raised the
gun and fired twice more. Penner
was still.

From the: living room, Garfein
ran in with his usual heavy steps.
“Burglars shot a hero cop in the
back and beat his wife to death,”
Ramsey said. He shrugged. “When
Penner thought he had a chance
to get out with a whole skin, he
didn’t want it. He wanted things
to be finished for him. I tried to
arrange it so he wouldn’t know
when the bullet was coming.”

Ramsey glanced down to the
resignation Penner had written,
folded it and put into a pocket.
“T hope I did the right thing. I sure
as hell hope so.”

“In a way, I’m sorry for him,”
Crisp said finally. “I guess he'll get
a hero’s funeral.”

“Deserves it,” Ramsey snapped,
“He was a good cop.”

SH
E, A

It happened in Kenosha, Wis. Milton Hall, 23, entered a restaurant, drew
a gun and demanded the contents of the cash register. But the waitress, Mrs.
Margaret Gresham, 20, was in no hurry. She began talking to Hall about the
failure of crime to pay and finally convinced him he should give up his plan.
Then she gave him a cup of coffee and borrowed a dime from him to call
police. Hall pleaded guilty the following day of attempted armed robbery.

Early Bird

Ardmore, Okla., police arrested a man because of his working hours, He
was selling “snuff” from door to door—at three o’clock in the morning.

120

MANHUNT

T ENVELOPE arrived at his office
in the morning mail. It was
marked Personal and Private, so
Miss Madison did not open it.
There was no return address, no
letter. Just a picture of him and
Gloria in the bedroom of her apart-
ment, and they weren’t looking for
missing cufflinks.

Shock slammed into Norman
Bennett when he first ripped open
the envelope and drew out the pic-
ture. He could not believe it was

L

i AT >
A ce SS

blackmailers
don't

take
chances

Bennett knew he had to pay the stranger off.
But Bennett wasn’t going to pay off in money...

BY
DAVID
C.
COOKE

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possible. No one could have taken
such a picture. They’d been alone,
he and Gloria. They were always
alone in her place. He’d made sure
no one ever saw them together.

But then who had taken the
picture... and how... and why
hadn’t they at least written a note
.., and what happened next?

That last was easy. It was too
obvious. And he’d have to pay, no
matter how much the blackmailer
demanded. If Stella ever got her
hands on the picture, she would
have plenty of evidence for a count-
ersuit against his incompatability
grounds, And she would milk him
dry in alimony. It was just the
kind of thing she had been wait-
ing for.

Bennett looked at the picture

again, and perspiration oozed from
his pores and ran down his cheeks.
There was no mistaking the peo-
ple. Every line in Gloria’s ecstasy-
contorted features stood out in stark
detail, and his face was equally
clear. He had moved his head to
the side just as the camera clicked,
giving almost a profile shot. But
even if his face had been hidden,
the tattoo on his right shoulder
would have been identification
enough. It was an exclusive design
the artist in Tokyo had worked out
for him, and all his friends knew
it by sight.
_ He threw the picture to the top
of his desk and jumped up from
his chair. He paced back and forth
on the thick pile carpeting.

122

Despite the precautions he and
Gloria had taken, someone had
seen them together and had fol-
lowed them, had probably been
following them and watching them
for a long time. Probably even
knew that he went to see her every
Tuesday and Friday after leaving
the office.

But who could it have been, and
how. had he got into her place to
take the picture, and why hadn’t
either of them heard him or seen
him?

There were no answers to those
questions. Not a single damn one.
He stopped his pacing, went back
to his desk, picked up his private
phone. As quietly and calmly as
possible, he told Gloria about the
picture.

“No!” she cried. “My God!”

“Now don’t get upset,” Bennett
said. “It'll be all right.”

“But how can it be all right?
Suppose somebody saw the picture
—somebody who knows you or
me?”

“They won't,” he assured her.

“You don’t know how many
prints have been made from the
negative,” she argued, her voice
tense. “He could have made Aun-
dreds!”

“Blackmailers don’t work like
that,” he said, trying to soothe her.
“He just made a print or two, and
put one in the mail to scare me.
He wouldn’t have shown it to any-
one else. Scum like this have to
work secretly.”

MANHUNT

There was silence on the line for
a second, then she said quietly,
“What happens next?”

“He'll probably phone and tell
me his price.”

“Will you—pay it?” she asked
hesitantly.

“What do you think?”

“I don’t want to think, I want
to know. Tell me the truth.”

“Of course I'll pay. You know
what would happen if Stella ever
got hold of the picture. She’d be
worse than any blackmailer. She
might even refuse to give me the
divorce.”

P “No!”

“She’s that kind of a woman,”
Bennett said. “Just so long as she
gets what she wants, she doesn’t
give a damn about anybody else.”

“But why would she want to
hold you? She doesn’t love you,
she’s never loved you.”

“Tve told you before. Because she
loves my money. It’s as simple as
that. She hates my insides, but she
loves my money. That’s the reason
Pll have to pay the blackmailer’s
price, no matter how much it is.”

A short time later he hung up
and looked at the envelope again.
It was cheap, the dime-store variety,
impossible to trace. And his name
and address were in block lettering.
Everything had the professional
touch. It was obvious that he was
dealing with someone who knew
what he was doing.

Now there was nothing to do
except wait for the phone call. And

BLACKMAILERS DON’T TAKE CHANCES

he had the feeling that it would
not come too soon. The black-
mailer would want to build up sus-
pense and stretch his nerves thin.
But he swore he would not let it
get him. He knew what he was
going to do, so there was no reason
to worry, no reason to make things
worse than they already were.

But suppose he wasn’t in his of-
fice when the call came? The black-
mailer might think he was refusing
to play ball, and that could be
rough. If he wasn’t in the market,
Stella would be. But definitely. She
would give anything or promise
anything to get her filthy hands on
that picture. He could almost see
the way she would gloat in satis-
faction. God, but she’d love it!

Despite the promise he’d made
to himself, fear shot into Norman
Bennett so strongly his mouth was
full of its coppery taste. He pressed
the button on his intercom set.

“Yes, Mr. Bennett?”

“Miss Madison,” he said shortly,
“Tl take all calls that come for me
today. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.” But it was obvious
that she did not understand.

“And don’t bother asking for
names. Just put them through.”

“Yes, Mr. Bennett.”

He took the picture from the
envelope again, and this time his
fingers were trembling. How could
anybody be so depraved to take’
such a picture? How low could
a person sink? But more important,
how had it been taken? That was

123

the damnable part. How the hell
had it been taken?

He couldn’t tell which time it
had been. He and Gloria made love
almost every time they were to-
gether. But the lights were never
on. If there was any light at all,
it was just a dim glow from the
hallway. Still, the picture was clear
and sharp, as if it had been made
in broad daylight or under bright
floods.

That meant the photographer had
used infrared. Which also meant
hed even known that Gloria in-
sisted on having the lights off. And
it followed that if he knew that
much, he must have seen them
making love before—not once, but
several times!

The phone rang.

“Hello,” Bennett said quickly,
snatching it up. “Who is it?”

Tom Ewing, a business acquain-
tance. Bennett tried to keep his
voice normal, rational, tried to dis-
guise his tenseness. Ewing asked
if he was all right and he said he
was fine, except for a slight head-
ache. Nothing to worry about, just
something he had eaten that didn’t
agree with him. It would pass. A

couple of aspirin would do the

trick,

He hung up, and the intercom
buzzed.

“Yes, Miss Madison, what is it?”
he growled in exasperation.

“Mrs. Bennett to see you, sir.”

Stella? What the hell did she
want? They hadn’t lived together,

124

hadn’t even seen each other except
in his lawyer’s office, ever since he’d
found out that she married him
strictly for his bank account.

“Tell her I’m not interested,” he
said. Then, quickly, “No, send her
in. I'll see her for a few minutes.”

Stella always looked like some-
thing out of the fashion magazines:
prim and precise, perfectly coiffed,
a walking mannequin as cold and
chiseled as a marble statue. She
was one of the most beautiful
women he had ever met or even
seen. That was something he
couldn’t take from her. But she
was cold, impenetrable, immovable.
A complete bitch.

She came through the door in a
little number whipped up by Ceil
Chapman, a beautiful but frigidly
impersonal smile on her lips.

“Hello, Norman. I hope you
don’t mind my coming up without
an appointment.”

“If it matters,” he said, “I do.
What do you want?”

She sat down in the club chair
opposite his desk, crossed her legs,
smoothed the dress over her lovely
knees. “You don’t have to be so
abrupt. Aren’t you surprised to see
me?”

“I’m surprised, but not over-
joyed. What do you want?” he
asked again.

“I thought we might talk for a
few minutes.”

“About what? We’ve said every-
thing that needs saying.”

“Have we?” She opened her

MANHUNT

handbag and took out a package
of cigarettes. An imported brand,
of course. Stella did not believe in
having anything common. Her
smile stretched a bit wider and
she touched the tip of her tongue
to her upper lip. “Suppose I told
you we've got a lot to talk about,
a lot more than you could possibly
realize.”

Bennett said nothing, but his
mind worked feverishly. Was it
possible that Stella had mailed him
the picture and was working up to
it gradually? That was just the
kind of thing she would do, it was
just the kind of conniving trick
she would pull.

“Suppose I told you that I’ve had
a detective following you,” she
went on. “Suppose I told you I
know you’ve been seeing another
woman. A cheap trollop named
Gloria Meade.”

“All right,” he said quickly, “sup-
pose I have? You and I haven’t
been together for months, and I
couldn’t just hibernate. This may
come as a shock to you, but I’m
human.”

Stella lighted her cigarette, in-
haled deeply, let a thin trickle of
smoke drift from her nostrils. Her
face was inscrutable. “Are you in
love with her?”

“Yes,” he said. “I love her the
way I thought I loved you. Only
this time. there’s no mistake. She
loves me too, and she’s a fine and
decent girl.”

“Are you sure of that?”

BLACKMAILERS DON’T TAKE CHANCES

He looked at her steadily, his
eyes cold. “Get to the point, Stella.
I’m not in the mood for games.”

Her smile suddenly vanished.
“You're a fool to think you could
keep a thing like that secret.” Her
voice was like iced satin. “It’s going
to cost you another twenty-five
thousand dollars, or I'll enter a
countersuit and name her as core-
spondent.”

He breathed silently in relief.
Stella hadn’t had anything to do
with the picture. If she had, she
wouldn’t be talking in what to her
were small figures. She would have
demanded everything and wouldn’t
have settled for less.

“All right,” he said quietly, “I'll
tell my lawyer.”

She shook her head slowly, the
smile returning, her eyes gleaming
in satisfaction. “You won’t tell any-
body, Norman. I don’t want any
income tax problems. I want this
in cash, with no records anywhere
on your books. Understand?”

He nodded in agreement, trying
to indicate defeat when he actually
felt elation. “All right. In cash.”

She mashed out her cigarette in
an ashtray and stood up. “You
realize you're getting off easy,” she
said. “I could have made you pay
a great deal more.”

“I know,” he said. “You’re a
wonderful girl, Stella. Everybody
knows how generous and thought-*
ful you are.” He said it straight,
but he knew she was shrewd
enough to feel the sarcasm.

125

Bennett did not go out to lunch.
He remained in his office, waiting
for the phone call. He had lost most
of his nervousness now. He was
still in a tough spot, but he would
be able to work out of it.

At two-fifteen the phone rang.
A deep masculine voice said, “Nor-
man Bennett?”

“Yes.” There was something in
the man’s voice, some tonal qual-
ity, that told him this was the call
he had been expecting.

“You got a photograph in the
morning mail. Did you recognize
the people in it?”

“I recognized them,” Bennett
said. “How much for the nega-
tive?”

“Fifty thousand,” the voice said.
“No bills larger than twenties.”

“All right,” Bennett said without
hesitation. “Where, and when?”

“You've got an account at the
First National, right?”

Yes?

“Pll pick you up in front of the
bank at three o'clock sharp.”

“I might have trouble getting
that much money so quickly.”
= “You'll have more trouble if you
don’t get it,” the man said harshly.
Then he hung up.

Bennett waited inside the bank
until the hands on the electric wall
clock pointed to one minute before
three. Then he stepped through the
polished brass, and glass doors and
walked to the curb, a leather satchel
in his hand. A taxi pulled over and
the rear door opened.

126

“Get in,” said the man in the
cab. He was big, stocky, with a
hard face, piercing eyes under
heavy brows, After Bennett sat next
to him he said, “You got it all?”

Bennett nodded. “I’ve got it.”

The man smiled, showing strong
teeth. “That’s smart. I didn’t think
you'd want any trouble.” He turn-
ed to the driver. “The Atlas Hotel,
Mac,” he said.

“Why a hotel?” Bennett asked.
“Can’t we take care of everything
right here?”

The man grunted disdainfully.
“You think Im a fool? I don’t
have the negative with me. And
I want to count that stuff you've
got in your bag. I don’t take
chances. Not a single damn
chance.”

The Atlas Hotel was a rundown
third-class joint off Eighth Avenue.
The man whisked Bennett past the
desk and into the elevator and told
the operator the fifth floor. They
rode up without speaking and got
out when the car stopped. They
walked down the hall, and. the
man opened the door leading to
the stairs. ;

“Where to now?” Bennett asked,
puzzled.

“Down one flight.”

“The room’s not on this floor?”

“That’s right. I told you, I don’t
take chances. And I had somebody —
else rent the room for me, just in
case you try to pull a funny act.”

They went down to the fourth
floor and out into the hall, the

MANHUNT

man still remaining behind Ben-
nett. “It’s four-o-three,” he said.
“The door’s unlocked.”

Bennett opened the door to 403
and went in. The room was small
and dingy. A sagging bed, scarred
furniture, a threadbare rug on the
floor. The bathroom door was
partly open.

The man put the chain on the
door, then said, “All right, let’s
see the color of your money. Dump
it on the bed.”

Bennett unlatched his satchel and
spilled out the neat bundles of
green. The man walked to the
other side of the bed, picked up
each bundle and examined it care-
fully.

“Its all there,” Bennett said. “I
kept my part of the bargain, now
you keep yours.”

The man pulled the spread back
from the bed, took an envelope
from beneath one of the pillows.
He tossed it on the bed.

“I promised the negative. There
it is.”

Bennett slipped the film from the
envelope, looked at it briefly in the
light from the window. Satisfied,
he struck a match and touched it
to the celluloid. It blazed fiercely,
and he dropped it in an ashtray. A
moment later nothing remained ex-
cept brittle ashes.

“Now we're both satisfied,” the
man said, starting to put the
bundles of money back into the
satchel. But suddenly he stopped.
Bennett was pointing a gun at him.

BLACKMAILERS DON’T TAKE CHANCES

“Not so fast,” he said quietly. “I
got what I wanted, but you haven’t
got a damn thing. I came in with
that money, and I’m going out
with it.”

The man’s eyes narrowed as he
looked at the gun. “You think
you'll get away with a rumble like
this?” he said.

Bennett smiled. “I don’t think,
I know.” }

“Then you’re not as smart as I
thought. You’re not smart at all.
I told you I don’t take chances.
I’ve still got a few prints from that
negative. How’d you like me to
show them to your wife?”

Bennett’s smile widened. “Don’t
try to take me for a sucker. I’ve
heard all the dodges. You don’t
have any other prints.”

The man shrugged .“Okay, have
it your way.” He nonchalantly
stuffed the rest of the bundles into
the satchel, snapped it shut, picked
it up in both hands. “So take your
dough. I don’t want it. As of now,
my price is double.”

The man was too cool, too calm,
too sure of himself. Bennett began
to think that perhaps it hadn’t been
very smart to bring a gun after
all. Perhaps the man wasn’t lying.
Perhaps he did have—

Suddenly the satchel was flying
at him. He saw it coming and
ducked aside. But then something
happened he hadn’t intended. In:
voluntarily, his finger tightened on
the trigger and the gun exploded.

The man stood still for a mo-

Dad
127

ment, a terrible grin of shock and
pain on his face. Then, slowly,
he fell forward, collapsing across
the bed. He was dead before
the springs squealed from his
weight.

Bennett’s mouth dropped open
in horror. He had brought the gun
merely as a threat, not as a weapon.
He would have given the man the
money without a word if hed
realized that anything like this was
going to happen. But now that it
had happened, he had to get out—
he had to run.

He shoved the pistol back under
his belt and picked up the satchel.
Thank God no one had seen him
with the man, he thought. He hur-
ried across the room, took the
chain off the door, went out.

His mind was racing. He had to
get out of the hotel without being
seen. He couldn’t chance going
down in the elevator. The operator
might remember that he and the
dead man had gone up together.
There was a good chance that the
operator wouldn’t remember his
face after just that one time, but
Bennett knew he couldn’t let him
take a second look.

He walked down the stairs.
Slowly, taking his time, saving his
strength in case he needed it for a
mad dash. He opened the lobby
door a crack and peered out. The
elevator door ‘was closed, the desk
clerk was nowhere in sight. He

stepped out and slipped from the
lobby to the sidewalk.

Bennett was close to collapse
when he arrived at his apartment.
But he was positive he had been
careful enough to avoid detection.
No one would remember seeing
him with the dead man, and he
had left nothing in the apartment,
not even fingerprints, to give the
police a clue. He would dispose of
his gun in the garbage and rede-
posit the money in a few days.
Then life would go on as usual.
He was completely in the clear.
It was a wonderful feeling.

The phone rang shrilly, startling
him. It was Gloria.

“T got the negative and paid him
off,” he told her. “Everything is
fine now.”

“You're sure?”

“Positive. I told you there wasn’t
anything to worry about.”

“Thats where you're wrong,
Norman,” she said. “There’s a lot
to worry about. More than before.”

He was puzzled. “What the devil
are you talking about? I told you
I paid him off.”

“But you didn’t say how, darl-
ing,” she said softly. “But I know.
I was in the bathroom. You should
see the new pictures I took. Won-
derful photography. PIl send you
a print in the morning. But they’re
terribly expensive. I’m afraid there’s
not going to be any money at all
left for poor Stella!”

HH

128

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